The City that Wouldn't Die
by Iced Blood
Summary: A World of Warcraft story. Part 23: Sythius makes the decision to enter into the Emerald Dream, hoping to find the key to helping Kin recover from his illness.
1. Tending to the Wounded

_**Hello. I'm Iced Blood. Welcome to my newest project.**_

_** In other stories posted on this site, and on my profile, I have mentioned that I play World of Warcraft. Like so many players before me, I have developed a special sort of attachment to my main character.**_

_** At some point during the first expansion, when the Blood Elves were introduced as a prominent race, a story began to unfold that explained the history, the personality, and the future of that character as an individual. In the years that followed, the story continued to evolve and incorporated elements from my previous works, as well as my own experiences. This character, and this story, have become a part of me.**_

_** If you enjoy the telling of this story half as much as I do, I'll have done my job.**_

_** This is the story of a night elf named Sythius, so far from home and fine with it.**_

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><p>"It's like watching a mountain cradle a twig."<p>

Captain Vant Lingham was not, in any sense of the word, a heartless man. Heartless men did not station themselves here, in the landscape of hell's forgotten nightmares. The trees, bloated and bent like gigantic brown snakes strangling the earth, stood sentinel over rotted leaves and dirt so soaked with blood and rotted meat that it put barely more resistance against a man's boots than boiled oats.

Heartless men did not station themselves here, where the corpses of the dead didn't rest long and never rested easy. The living didn't last long here if they let themselves forget what it meant to live. It was too easy to lose hope.

"What use have we for _that?" _Jonas Holfield continued, sounding bitter and disgusted. "Never damn _talks _to anyone. Can't read, can't write, can't bloody well follow orders."

The captain didn't know, and he didn't bother to answer. He was not a heartless man, and he knew the value of a strong spirit. But this wasn't strength. He looked at the massive bulk of the druid with a mixture of pity and anger, thinking that the Holy Light had a sick sense of humor to have such a soft heart encased in the body of a giant. To have a soft heart in the Plaguelands was worse than having no heart at all.

The elf sat at the edge of their camp, which amounted to little more than a series of hand-me-down tents and a pathetic little cook-fire. His massive, tree-trunk legs were crossed beneath him, and the bundled form of the elf's new pet sat cradled in arms the size of a human man's waist.

"What's that oaf's name, anyway?"

Captain Lingham grunted. "Sythius," he said. "One of those shapeshifting types, sent to us out of Kalimdor's roof. The Maiden found 'im. Guess she used him for a mission or two, decided he needed more training. Saddled us with him."

Holfield stared, dark eyes incredulous under thin, raised eyebrows. "Them're _real?" _he asked. "Thought druids changing into animals were just a myth, thrown around to make the tree-humping freaks look important."

"Aye," Captain Lingham muttered, not really paying attention. "But if there was anybody I'd put money on changing into a beast, it'd be that one." Most night elves, and Captain Lingham had seen more than his fair share, were a big lot. Even the slimmest of their women were taller and heavier than a stocky human male; the men were huge.

This Sythius from the frozen wastelands of the North dwarfed the biggest elf Captain Lingham had ever seen by about half a foot. Had anyone else brought a plague victim into camp, starved and dying child or not, the captain would have told them to end it quickly. But the thing about having a recruit two feet taller than he was—and twenty stone heavier than Big Olrec besides—was that if he didn't want to do something, there really wasn't any way to force him.

The subject had been broached, but Sythius would not have it. "This young one," he would say, in a rumbling growl that sounded like the voice of a bear taught to speak, "is a victim. We do not kill victims."

When he was not on patrol, Sythius could be found tending to the boy he'd found. It was a sickly thing, barely more than a starved stack of ribs, sunken eyes, and a puss-filled infected arm. Captain Lingham called the boy "it" more often than not because he knew it wouldn't be long before it turned. The druid would wake one morning to find his prized pet ripping out his throat.

As his boots crunched over the skeletons of lost leaves, and his rusting grieves clanked and jingled, Captain Lingham looked around at his men. Fifteen there were now; each dressed in a loaner's chainmail. These were no military brats with inherited armor, out here in the tattered remains of Lordaeron. They carried iron weapons, cheap and simple, meant to bludgeon and slice open, ceremony be damned. They were the true face of any army. They were the beaten, the battered. They slogged through the work that "proper" soldiers wouldn't touch because they had a damned job to do.

A truly damned job.

Big Olrec took a spoon out of the cauldron set onto the cook-fire, slurped at it like a chef at competition, grimaced, and shook his shaggy head. He tossed the spoon back into the boiling broth and turned away, spying Sythius at his nightly vigil. The old shaman stomped over to the elf. "How's 'e fare, lad?" he offered in his booming, echoing voice. The other men had been mumbling to themselves about tying the bearded bastard to a tree and using him as bait; even his whispers carried halfway across the continent.

Sythius grunted a reply that probably didn't have any words in it. But Big Olrec nodded like he understood perfectly, laying one of his huge hands on the druid's shoulder. "Ye're gonna hafter consider the notion, lad. 'E might not make it. Might'n be, best we kin do is make the death clean." Another growl, this one much more menacing and primal than the first. "I know, lad. I know." Big Olrec patted Sythius's shoulder. "C'mon, then. It's yer watch. Let an old dwarf see what 'e kin do fer the boy."

Sythius gave another incomprehensible rumble, handed his bundle to the dwarf and rose to his feet, bringing up his gargantuan spear. Holfield scoffed derisively, straightening his chainmail as if to differentiate himself from the rumpled disorganization of the druid. "Now he's got he dwarf soft on that thing," he muttered. Indeed, Big Olrec was cradling Sythius's pet like his own newborn heir. "What's he doing, trying to heal it?" Holfield asked this with slathering disdain, and Captain Lingham scowled.

"That's the old dwarf's calling."

"Ngh." Holfield pulled a knife from his belt as Sythius strode past him. "Maybe next time, I should try _my _healing powers on it."

It happened too quickly to be logical. The druid was too gigantic to move this quickly. But before Captain Lingham blinked, Sythius was standing a number of steps away from Holfield; after Captain Lingham blinked, Holfield had the stone slab of an elven fist clamped around his throat and a hand-sharpened spearhead a bare inch from his left eye.

"You are looking sick," Sythius growled, and they were the clearest words he had ever spoken. "Someone should heal _you."_

He threw Holfield to the ground like a bag of trash, and stalked away. Holfield, gasping and choking, stumbled to his knees. Captain Lingham's gaze alternated between the fuming elf, the terrified human, and the thoroughly amused dwarf, who wasn't even trying to hide the beaming grin beneath his greying beard.

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><p><em><strong>I will be doing my best to incorporate authentic lore and personalities into this story as it goes on. This introductory section shows a few of the members of Lingham's Company, an offshoot of the Argent Dawn. Each of the characters in this section are of my own creation and, to quote the ever-popular disclaimer, any resemblance to existing characters or personalities is coincidental.<strong>_


	2. Politics of War

_**Each chapter of this work will consist of a single scene, though that scene might go several places. This is an experiment of mine, and I want to see if it works as a delivery device for me, as well as for you.**_

_** Thanks to everyone who took note of this new project. It might seem generic, especially for those who have read my previous stories, but this story is very important to me. It's been in my head for a great number of years, and to finally have it come to fruition as a written work is beyond exciting.**_

_** Enjoy this next chapter. Feedback is always appreciated, but all I ask is that you give it a look. It's one of my first times writing a fantasy story. I want to make sure I do it right.**_

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><p>"You know you're wasting your time, right?"<p>

The dwarf didn't make an immediate reaction, as though he wasn't paying attention. The bundle of cloak that held the druid's new charge was settled in front of Big Olrec as he crushed some herbs into his palm with one massive thumb. "Aye," he mumbled, after a long enough silence that Holfield had been about to head off to the cauldron of water-soup for whatever slop passed for dinner.

"So why are you bothering with it?" Holfield asked, crossing his arms.

"If the best we kin do is make the last hours comf'ble, it'sa least we kin do." The old shaman recited this as though it were an ancient dwarven proverb. "Hope's abandoned this one. Mercy may yet come about."

Holfield scrunched up his nose and scratched at the stubble of his square chin. "To what end?"

This made Big Olrec look up, his beady, coal-black eyes widening a bit. "What end d'ye need, soldier?" His voice was a lumbering, quiet rumble not unlike that of the elf druid, and Holfield put a hand on the shortsword belted to his hip.

"That thing's not even human!"

Big Olrec _had _looked suspicious. Now he looked affronted. "And what a loss fer him, not bein' human," he spat. "How kin he possibly go on, not bein' human?" Holfield realized his mistake and took a step back. "Human, elf, gnome, dwarf...we're all survivors out here, boy. It turns every heart cold. But if we're too cold to help a lost civilian—"

"A bastard son of the Horde is a civilian, now?"

Offense gave way to honest anger, as Big Olrec took a strangle-hold on one of the huge metal-slab hammers hanging from his wide belt and reared up like a rabid lion. "A fledgling with none but the strength ter kill the dust 'n maggots ye'd need ter live out in his hellhole ain't a bastard o' no army!" the dwarf roared, and twelve pairs of eyes whirled to face the owners of the remaining four as Holfield stumbled backward and nearly fell flat on his backside. "Ye know which soldiers make war with people ain't done no evil to 'em?" There was a beat of silence as the young human tried to stammer out an answer. "The _dead _ones!" the shaman cut him off, fury rolling off of his stout frame in actual waves of heat. Dead leaves swept up about Big Olrec's boots and smoldered. "Ye're the captain's squire! I'd pegged ye one o' the smart ones! Get me a water-skin, ye great blasted idiot, and be quick about it or I'll finish the work the elf started on yer neck!"

Holfield scrambled away, nearly wetting himself in the process. Big Olrec grunted dismissively as he slipped one of his remaining leaves in between the dying child's cracked lips. He didn't give any kind of reaction as the boots of his commander came clomping up behind him, and took a long time to react even when Vant Lingham's scratchy voice proclaimed: "That one's mine, old friend. Chain of command dictates that only _I _have leave to terrorize him."

Big Olrec snorted derisively.

"He has good reason to fear," the good captain continued. "You've seen the eyes, same as we have. I won't speak to the druid's high-minded equality, but...young or not, innocent or not, that boy has the devil in him."

"Boy's got _two _devils in him, wagin' war in his guts," Big Olrec replied. "You won't hear no argument from me on the elf...might be a dumb sack o' guts, but he's got the heart most of us lost so long back we forgot where it came from." Olrec glared pointedly at Holfield as he shuffled back up to them, snatched the water-skin he offered with shaking hands, and set it to the child's lips. "I'm nary lost on account'a elves," the dwarf continued, "and I'm not needin' a lesson for the bloody ones. This one ain't old enough to've brought on the rituals 'imself. Somethin' else put yer green devil in 'im." Gesturing at the lump of cloak that served as the boy's blanket, Olrec looked back at his captain and again ignored the squire. "They're pragmatists, them bloods. This one's so scrawny, he'd be tossed outta Silvermoon faster'n King Anduin."

Captain Lingham sighed heavily. "It's infected, Olrec."

"If one o' ye calls this fledgling _it _again," Big Olrec cut in, "I'll knock yer arse out from under ye 'n choke ye with yer chain o' command, see if I don't."

"You've taken to...him, haven't you?"

"'E's pathetic, Vant. Look at 'im."

"I see a liability, Olrec," Captain Lingham said with a resigned look on his haggard face. "If we lose one man because of...him...that's on _me. _I can't afford that. _We _can't afford that. If you're half as smart as you've been trying to convince me you are ever since we met...you'll make the death clean, _before _he turns."

"I'll give it me best effort," Big Olrec said, rising to his feet after rewrapping the boy in the blanket, "but I'll warn ye, Vant. Ye mayn't got much a stance on the elf, but ye ain't seen 'im fight. If it ain't done 'til the fledgling's so far gone it's too obvious, so far gone a lamp-post could see it...if the druid gets wind o' us tryin' ter take his new cub from him...ain't a one of us makin' it back to Light's Hope alive."

With that, the old shaman stomped away.

Vant Lingham wiped a hand across his face. "Stop looking at the pathetic little thing like _he _made a fool of you," he muttered without opening his eyes again. "You were the one stupid enough to argue wartime politics with Olrec. Let's get moving." He turned on a heel and headed for his own tent, bigger than the others by a fraction and no more decorated than any of them.

"I'm going to shank that thing in its sleep," Holfield muttered.

"Leave it," Captain Lingham replied.

"I'm serious," the boy snarled. "Watch me."

"_Don't make me repeat myself, soldier!" _the captain roared, and all conversation screeched to a halt. Holfield stared, stunned, and his face went slack. Turning again and putting a hand on the axe at his belt, Lingham swept a raptor's gaze over his men. "The next time I hear a word about that _damned _elfling, I'll string you up myself! And that goes for any of you!"

He whirled and stalked away, sudden anger smoldering in his dark eyes.

Damned squires.

Damned elves.

Damned war.

"...I need a damned drink."

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><p><em><strong>There's some not-so-subtle racism going on here. I know. But when dealing with an archaic society with literally separate races, I feel like it's an inevitability. I don't know if it was Tolkien who established the undercurrent of animosity between humans and elves, but I certainly think that its presence is felt in the Warcraft universe.<strong>_

_** It's an important theme in this story.**_

_** See you next time.**_


	3. Druids

_**Thanks to those who've expressed their interest in this story. It's a new venture for me, and it's gratifying to know that it's appreciated. I've put a lot more work into this story than is readily evident.**_

_** This chapter marks the first time an NPC from World of Warcraft makes it into the narrative. Let's see what she has to say, shall we?**_

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><p>He was dressed in furs and leathers, every stereotype of the kaldorei male that any human had ever held: huge, savage, with no regard for social protocol; a wild animal masquerading as a man. It was ironic that, if not for the inverse in size, he would <em>also<em> have met the lowest expectations that the night elves held for _human_ men.

Sythius Sil'nathin had an exotic, almost regal name, but his bearing was anything but. His armor—and the men often wondered if it made any difference that he wore it, considering his bulk—had innumerable scratches and the Light only knew how many dried bloodstains; it was almost dyed red. The only thing that was clean about his appearance was the white-and-lavender fur mantle he wore, which matched the wrappings of his massive spear—and was similarly pristine. Sythius took great pains to wash these articles, often at the expense of washing himself. He was as dirty and grime-streaked as any of the plagued.

The thing was, all of them were. Even the captain, as crippled by his need for order and discipline as a foreign dignitary for adherence to tradition, was battered and unshaven. The Plaguelands did that to a person, human or elf or otherwise.

When _she_ visited the camp, for most of the men it was the first vision, the first bare _glimmer_, of beauty they'd seen since their instatement. If Sythius was every stereotype of a night elf man, then _this_ elf was every expectation of a nature goddess.

She wore simple robes of homespun wool, and she had an aura of fatigue about her that was all too expected, but still the meager needles of sunlight that penetrated the veil of disease seemed hell-bent on cradling her, such that she seemed to glow as she stepped smoothly like an autumn whisper into their midst. She had leaf-green hair that tumbled easily about her shoulders; she had a strong, willful stride and a curvy, healthy body yet to succumb to anything, least of all the exhaustion in her silver eyes or the pestilence of her surroundings. The men of Vant Lingham's company very nearly took a knee before her.

Her name was Rayne, and even the most pigheaded literalist could have appreciated the poetry there; she seemed to wash away the ugliness of this tainted earth by way of her mere presence. She approached the captain and nodded to him. Lingham gave a half-salute in response. "How many men?" she asked, with a silken voice that rang like music.

"Three," came Lingham's scratchy hiss. "Dorian and Jacoby are nursing scratches. Nothing fatal if it's tended quickly. But Gram's looking bad. Pale, shaking, and he says he's hungry through the nausea. He's already asked once that we end it before he turns. I hoped you might help to…calm him."

Rayne's brow furrowed with displeasure, but her jaw was set with a grim understanding. "Show me."

Lingham gestured. They began to walk in silence toward a sectioned-off tent at the far north edge of the camp. The captain's lips pursed as he saw Big Olrec sitting just outside the canvas morgue—they called it a medic's tent, but who were they kidding?—with a number of tools and ingredients, still tending to the boy. Sythius was not to be found.

The dwarf looked up as Lingham and Rayne came close. "Hail," he growled to the druidess, rough face splitting into his usual smile for the first time in what seemed like days. "Fare ye well, m'lady?"

Rayne smiled graciously; she liked the old shaman. "Master Stoutfeather. I am well." She was the only one in the Dawn who could call Big Olrec by his clan's name without a hammer across the face.

"Me heart sings ter hear it." He glanced at his commander, then back to Rayne. "'Ere to work yer magic on the boys?"

Rayne nodded.

Big Olrec nodded in turn. "M'lady." He suddenly looked grave again, and Rayne reacted to this by shifting a hand nearer to the dagger she kept on a thong in one of her sleeves, but so little changed in her expression that Lingham wasn't sure what to make of the exchange.

"Yes?"

"I wonder if ye might do a favor fer one o' yer own," the shaman said. "Ye seen the newbie. The big'un with the wild eyes."

Rayne's smile returned, but it seemed a strained one. "Sythius and I have…met. Yes." Again, Lingham wasn't sure what to make of this. He didn't bother to ask why she suddenly looked so tense. "Is he working for you and your men now? Captain Lingham?"

"…Yes. He is."

"Has he asked for me?" She almost sounded hopeful.

"Nay," Olrec said. "When I mentioned ye, lad got quiet. Said he'd nae want'n trouble fer ye."

Rayne raised an eyebrow. "He said that."

"Aye. So _I'm_ askin' ye. This's yer callin'."

"Light, Olrec, leave it _be,"_ Lingham groaned.

"What'd I tell ye 'bout callin' him 'it?' When ye're done wit'cher business, m'lady…" He gestured. "The elf found 'im, out on the field. Nuttin' I done be much good fer him. Ye got a number o' years on me. Thought ye might have better luck."

Rayne considered for only a moment. "I'll do what I can. But if _you've_ been unable to do anything…I don't know what difference I'll make."

"Ye flatter me." Big Olrec's smile returned. "Thankee."

Lingham and Rayne disappeared behind a canvas flap, and Olrec sat by the dying boy while he cursed the earth.

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><p><em><strong>I know it's a bit short, but I decided when I started this project that each chapter would be comprised of a single scene. I hope I may be forgiven. Also, it should be noted that I make no guarantees about the accuracy of my Dwarf accent. Just…use your imagination, ne? Apparently dwarves all talk the same way, regardless of the universe from which they hail.<strong>_


	4. Of Blood and Elves

_**Another short installment; so I'll be brief. I have done my best to hold to Warcraft lore, and I have a fair amount of experience with it. Having played WoW nearly since release, I would hope that I remembered enough to be accurate. However, if I make any mistakes here, please don't hesitate the let me know.**_

_** Being set in a fantasy world doesn't excuse this story from being accurate.**_

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><p>Watching Rayne's healing touch was like watching a savant sit at an instrument. There was no preparation, there was no distraction, there was nothing left in the world itself. Big Olrec knew his way around medicines, and could identify an herb just by the feel of it between his fingers; he could tell the grade of a poultice at a glance. He watched Rayne set to work and felt like an amateur apprentice all over again. The very fabric of nature itself clung to her fingers, and obeyed her unspoken commands with unwavering obedience.<p>

"Where did he find this child?" she asked, and her voice snapped the dwarf out of his trance-like admiration. He had seen her at work on a great number of occasions, and it never failed to catch him off-guard. Something so green, so tranquil, so _alive _in this place ravaged by the dead, was a nearly religious experience.

"Hard t' tell," Big Olrec replied with effort. "Not much fer talkin'. Out on patrol few nights past, said he found the fledgling huddled under a bunch o' rags. Picked 'im up, wrapped 'im in a cloak, brought 'im back. Thought maybe one o' us could help 'im."

"The disease has hold of him," the druidess murmured. "I don't know that I've ever seen someone hold on long enough for it to progress this far. It stops evolving after death; the body simply starts to fall apart." She gestured to his stick-like limbs. "This poor boy's nearly dead from starvation, never mind the plague."

"We been feedin' him much as we can," Olrec said softly, somewhat sheepishly, "me 'n the big'un, but he was like that when 'e came in. Ain't woke up since. Just been shakin' 'n moanin' like that. Poor lad's good as dead, but the elf won't hear it."

A soft smile visited Rayne's features. "I...can believe that of him. Tell me, Master Stoutfeather. How is he doing here with your company? How does he fare under Captain Lingham?" She looked honestly intrigued, though still with a conflicted air that came over her whenever the subject of the young shapeshifter came up.

Olrec grunted. "Most men, comes time for their patrol, they get their weapons 'n wrap themselves in metal. They go out lookin' round, make sure none o' the beasties are afoot. Call if they find one. Standard procedure, m'lady. Ain't none of us s'posed ter take out a plaguer without backup." He grimaced at the look on Rayne's face. "Apologies, m'lady. Plague victim. But Sythius, that one's a walkin' army by himself. That one don't go patrollin'. He goes huntin'."

"He seeks them out?"

"Aye. Calls 'em dark. Evil. Says he's gotta give 'em back ter the earth. Only been with us a coupl'a weeks, he's got more of 'em put down than the rest o' the company put together in the last month-and-a-half." Big Olrec smiled. "One thing ya gotta give that giant: he's dedicated."

Rayne's smile widened a bit. She didn't respond for a long moment, however, as she wiped the boy's forehead with a damp cloth. She began to change one of the tiny elf's bandages, grimacing at the puss-filled wound that must have been the gateway for the sickness. The Walking Sickness, as it was sometimes called.

Rayne lifted back the child's eyelids. An unseeing, unnaturally bright green gaze stared up at nothing. "...Sin'dorei," she murmured softly. "He's a blood elf."

"Aye. Some o' the men're...concerned."

"This boy wouldn't have the strength or the training to cause any damage, even if he _didn't_ have the plague," Rayne said dismissively. "He's too young to have taken part in the rituals. Something else corrupted him." The young night elf sighed. "...Poor darling. As though he didn't have enough to worry about."

"Aye..."

Rayne was not like any number of her kin. All elves' eyes glowed, made alight by their connection to the energies of the earth. Her own were a bright, cutting silver that gleamed like twin moons set into her face. Sythius's were amber. These were their natural colors.

Those elves who turned to the arcane, unlike Rayne's people who abhorred such magic, were gifted with eyes that glinted with a bright, cyan blue.

Elves corrupted by the magic of the damned, who sought the strength of demons and devils, had green eyes.

Most night elves would have turned their noses at a high elf's blue eyes; they would have immediately set a knife into the ribs of any green-eyed monster like this.

Rayne would not. And neither would Sythius Sil'nathin.

"Do you think he was abandoned by Silvermoon?" the druidess asked, semi-conversationally. "He looks as though he hasn't had a good meal in weeks. They might be the enemy, but I can't believe they would be this abusive to one of their own." Rayne was a pacifist at heart; she had little time or tolerance for the war with the Horde. "Even if they were running low on supplies, they'd not abandon a child to the plague…would they?"

"The blood elves're a pragmatic lot," Big Olrec grumbled. "They'd no use for weakness. Still, like ye say, they're not populated enough ter be tossin' out children. 'Specially one's young as this. Young means impressionable. Young means obedient. They'd want 'im for a soldier."

Before Rayne could respond with any more than an offended flash of her ethereal eyes, she suddenly went stiff. Her hands disappeared into the voluminous sleeves of her robes as she rose into a stealthy crouch. She seemed meek, mild, even weak; but the way she moved betrayed her training. Big Olrec was already on his feet, his hammers embedded into the granite of his fists.

One thing that the Plaguelands did for those brave or insane enough to inhabit them was to sharpen their instincts to a devastating edge. Every one of them who had lasted longer than a week knew what _that_ particular shuffling, scraping, growling sound meant.

The dead were walking.

The dead were feeding.

Olrec and Rayne exchanged looks as Vant Lingham's men fell into position.

"…Where are ye, elf?"

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><p><em><strong>A bit of a cliffhanger. Those who have read my other works on this site know I have a bit of a penchant for these. I beg patience. With luck, it will all be worth it in the end.<strong>_

_** 'Til next time, all.**_


	5. The Son of Ursoc

_**I love zombie stories. I make no apologies for it. This Zombie Renaissance that seems to have begun over the past few years—Zombieland, The Walking Dead, World War Z, Left 4 Dead, Dead Island—has suited me just fine, thank you. That is, first and foremost, why this story always began in the Plaguelands.**_

_** I wasn't able to play through the first Scourge Invasion, but I indulged in the second with no holds barred. I've earned my Tabard of the Argent Dawn, I'm exalted with the Argent Crusade, I rose through the ranks in the Argent Tournament, and I sifted and thrashed my way through Stratholme 218 times to get Rivendare's Deathcharger. Suffice it to say that my time in WoW has been entrenched in the undead, and so has Sythius's.**_

_** Hence, this chapter.**_

_** Watch your feet.**_

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><p>They came like a broken wave creeping up the shore of an abandoned beach, foaming and spreading over everything. Shuffling, bloated, blackened corpses crawling across rocks and debris. There was no male or female, no young or old. There was only death, crawling on a hundred bellies, clawing with two hundred hands.<p>

All clamoring to chew and bite and tear the flesh off fifteen soldiers in rusting armor who carried chipped weapons that suddenly felt woefully inadequate.

"Keep yourselves, boys!" Captain Vant Lingham shouted, stepping out into the center of the camp by the cook-fire. "We've trained for this! Now comes the time to show these flea-bitten mongrels the _real_ scourge of Lordaeron!"

The men stood strong, straightened their backs. But Olrec could read through his old friend's bravado. The man was petrified, barely holding his feet.

None of them had ever seen such a huge gathering of the things before. Olrec could count at least thirty just from a cursory glance, and Light only knew how many more would come behind those. They were coming in from every direction, all moaning and slavering and staring; those who had eyes were blind, and most only had a swampy, flickering light of unholy fire smoldering in their sockets. But they were all watching. They were all wanting.

They were all hungry.

"Heaven be damned, where's the _fucking elf?"_ Lingham screeched. Then, as if realizing he may as well be asking where the Stormwind army was, he shook his head and shouted: "What are we, children? Bring the fight to the beasts! _Move!"_

And he charged.

Moved by their leader's courage, the men followed his lead, and metal met with flesh and black bone. What followed was a scene Olrec Stoutfeather had seen too many times before. For each creature that went down, another seemed to rise up in its place.

"The head!" the shaman shouted as he joined the fray. "Aim fer the head!"

Big Olrec's hammers were little more than slabs of metal on thick handles, without the ornamentation expected of his race. As one arced down and crushed one of the demons flat, causing the skull to implode and a fountain of blackening blood to spray up into the air, he whirled and sent another flying with its twin.

They weren't pretty, but the Plaguelands had no use for pretty.

One was on its feet, clambering toward him on limbs that looked too spindly to hold up a bundle of feathers. Olrec reeled back and sent both weapons _crunching_ into either side of its neck. The thing's head soared.

Up came Lingham with his sweeping axe, lopping off limbs and heads in equal frequency. Human and dwarf become a single entity, a swirling vortex of crushing, slashing, smashing oblivion. They had one of the smallest companies in the entire region, but now—perhaps for the first time—the rest of the men understood why.

More simply weren't needed.

They dared think they might just live, after all. But even as the death toll rose—fourteen, fifteen, eighteen, twenty-four—more kept coming.

More, and more, and more.

A snarling mouth. _Crash!_ A searching claw. _Crunch! _

Swords and arrows and bolts and axes, limbs and ribs and heads, moans and shouts and screams, thrown into the air like unholy confetti. Lingham's camp became like every other field of war there had ever been, and ever would be.

Pure, unadulterated chaos.

One popped up across one of its fallen fellows and sent itself like a flesh-and-teeth bullet straight for the dwarf, when huge, snaking vines sprang from the earth and wrapped themselves around its middle. A dry-paper crackle-and-_snap_ resounded through the air as the thing was torn in half.

Olrec crushed its head beneath one boot.

"Much obliged, m'lady!" he cried without looking back.

"_Tor ilisar'thera'nal!"_ Rayne cried in return.

"What did she say?" Lingham demanded.

"She said shut yer trap 'n kill 'em faster, ye festering moron!"

Someone screamed.

It was like the eye of a great storm. Time itself seemed to slow down to watch. They all knew that voice. They all fantasized about silencing that voice forever. But Vant Lingham whirled, his face suddenly slack with horror.

"_JONAS!"_ he shrieked.

Jonas Holfield, the good captain's squire, youngest of the company at only seventeen summers, was flat on his back with one ankle twisted at an unnatural angle. One of the creatures was crawling over to him, ignoring the frantic swipes of the boy's short-sword. Another was hovering over him, streams of rancid saliva flowing like strings onto his chest. A third was inching forward. A fourth had caught the scent.

He was surrounded, and he was doomed.

"_Run, you idiot!"_ Lingham commanded.

He couldn't.

Olrec charged. He didn't care for the boy, thought he was too stupid and arrogant for the assignment he'd been given. He sometimes outright hated the son of a bitch. But Jonas Holfield was the captain's squire, and that made him a brother.

Olrec Stoutfeather had sworn too long ago to never watch another brother die.

He was too far. He wasn't going to make it in time. There was too much distance between them, and too many of the damned things. The boy was done. Olrec's vow was going to be broken.

After sixty-seven years of war…his oath was going to break.

No. _N__o!_

The old dwarf found speed he didn't know he had. He sped forward like a cannonball, hammers flying like hunks of shrapnel, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

One of them seemed to look straight at Big Olrec Stoutfeather before dipping in for the kill. More and more kept coming. As he looked around, he saw them. Scores of them, struggling to find a way at them. So many.

Too many.

And then…the roar.

_The roar._

A huge, hulking white beast came barreling through the ranks of the plagued, a creature unlike anything Olrec had ever seen. It was like a fur-covered boulder with claws the size of a man's head and teeth like curved knives. It thrashed and tore, crushed and splintered, all while letting out that ear-splitting, earth-shaking roar.

It was a bear.

"They're rearing animals!" one man wailed.

"What fresh hell is this?" Lingham groaned.

It was twice as big as any bear Olrec had ever seen, with prominent, pointed ears. Its fur seemed to glow as the beast rent its way through the undead, stark and untainted by blood at any point but its ripping, tearing claws. The bear's strikes were too final for that.

One gargantuan paw crushed a bent skull into dust and gore; a sweeping slash from the other tore another in twain. The bear lowered one huge shoulder and threw itself forward, sending a third flying.

The men were screaming and wailing in abject terror now. They'd expected the undead. They'd anticipated the undead. But _this_ had them reeling.

Olrec turned a panicked glance to Rayne, still standing near the boy. She was still sending her vines out and catching the meager few as yet untouched by the great bear's onslaught, crushing and strangling.

But her attention was riveted on the bear, and she looked radiant.

Her lips moved through her smile, and even though Olrec couldn't hear her, he could read the word she whispered, and his heart soared. He whirled back to face Lingham, grinning fit to burst. He grabbed his commander's arm and shook it. "The elf!" he cried.

Lingham seemed not to hear.

"The elf, man! _It's the elf!"_

Sythius Sil'nathin, exiled druid from Winterspring, was back with his company. And his thundering voice rose to shake the heavens.

* * *

><p><strong><em>"Tor ilisar'thera'nal!" - "Let our enemies beware!" (a Darnassian warcry)<em>**


	6. A Brother at His Back

_**For those of you who will read this multiple times, I apologize. Feel free to ignore this if you've already seen it, and move on to the chapter.**_

_**Here in my neck of the woods, it is now the 9**__**th**__** day of February, in the year 2012. Ten years ago today, I came across Fanfiction-dot-Net. I proceeded to publish "Lonely, Broken Hero," the first story I wrote that ever felt complete. It was inspired by a song, written for the Square-Enix game "Chrono Trigger," and marked the beginning of a lifelong passion.**_

_**Since February 9**__**th**__**, 2002, I have had the honor of meeting some of the greatest people on earth. These people have given me 5,885 reviews, thousands of Favorites, and over 1.8 million hits across 40 projects. These people have supported me, cheered for me, informed me, criticized me, and helped me embark on some of the most memorable journeys of my life. I never would have made it without them.**_

_**To celebrate this illustrious anniversary, and to thank you for being the best audience an author could ever ask for, I have written extra chapters for each of my 8 ongoing projects. I present them to you now, and humble myself before you. Were it not for you, these stories never would have come into being, or lasted nearly as long as they have.**_

_**Thank you again. You all have changed my life.**_

_**Here's to another decade of adventure and exploration.**_

_**Enjoy.**_

* * *

><p>The white bear vanished as the last of the plagued fell in a broken heap at its feet, leaving in its place the no-less-imposing figure of the night elf exile, in his furs and leathers and one fist clutching his massive spear.<p>

By the time his onslaught had ended, Sythius had obliterated nearly half of the hundred corpses that now littered what remained of Lingham's camp. Of the captain's fifteen men, not a single one had succumbed to the corruption of the enemy, thanks to this hulking brute they'd once mocked and jeered in their cups.

Jonas Holfield, of all people, was the first to approach, hobbling forward and using a halberd to hold his weight off his mutilated ankle. He stopped behind the huge elf and drew in a deep breath, gathering his wits. Finally, as the sterile silence threatened to strangle them, he said, shakily,

"You saved my life. And my soul. Thank you, Brother."

Sythius didn't respond. He seemed not to know anyone else was there with him.

Three things happened in that next moment.

A shuffle sounded from the medic's tent. A child's scream echoed in the air and made their bones shudder. The druid whirled and launched his spear as easily as any boy with a wooden zeppelin.

The weapon whirred past a stunned Holfield's right ear with all the momentum of a ballista bolt, soared over Rayne's shoulder and straight into the hunched and hungry form of a soldier with a resonating, sickening _crunch._

Lingham stared as a man he'd been fighting alongside for years flew backward into the tent in an explosion of tainted blood.

"Gram…"

He sounded awed.

Sythius threw himself forward, and it took the company a long moment to realize that the dying elf child with the bright green eyes was still howling his tiny lungs out.

Rayne—when the shock of nearly being decapitated wore off—and Olrec—when the shock of losing a comrade to friendly fire wore off—were the next to gather their wits. They joined Sythius. Rayne went to the boy, and Olrec went to Gram…or the pile of flesh and splinters that shared Gram's name.

The shaman grimaced. "Dead and dead again," he muttered. "Turned, 'r I'm a gnomish priest."

Sythius lifted the squalling child into his mammoth arms. He murmured something that nobody could hear (or understand). As Rayne watched, the elfling's wide, panicked eyes found the man who held him. His cries began to quiet. When Rayne made to touch him, to stroke a clump of dead-straw hair from his brow, the boy jerked away and wailed. Sythius made a low, rumbling growl, and he quieted again.

Rayne actually chuckled. "…Seems he only wants his savior," she said softly.

Sythius didn't seem to hear her. He had eyes only for his charge.

"Round up, boys," Lingham called after a long silence, and it jerked them all out of a stupor. Except, of course, the elves. "We got clean-up to do." He strode over to them, axe still in hand. "Light preserve me. I don't think I've ever seen anything like that. No offense to you, Sil'nathin, but I hope I never see it again." He chuckled nervously. "Didn't think that talk of shapeshifters amounted to much truth." Sythius finally seemed to realize that someone was talking to him. He looked down at his captain. "Bit late, but you saved us all, you did. Every one of us sad, sorry souls." He saluted. "You have my gratitude, soldier. And my respect."

Sythius stared for a moment, like he didn't know what any of this meant, then nodded, shifted his grip so that he held the now-quiet child in the crook of his left arm, and offered a salute of his own.

Rayne was smiling wistfully.

Each of the men came up to offer their thanks as they began to clean up the bodies. Dobbs looked ready to fall to his knees in reverence. Alkin could barely speak. They clapped the druid's back, offered to buy him a drink—"Nay, a keg!"—when they made it back to Light's Hope; all were in a surprisingly good mood, considering the ordeal they'd just survived.

Except Holfield.

He was last to approach. And when he spoke, his voice was low and sheepish. "…I never given you not one kindness. Never had a good word to say. Just a day's length ago, you were ready to kill me. So…why?"

Sythius stared at his commander's squire.

Seemed to mull the question over.

Then he reached out and lay his free hand onto Jonas Holfield's shoulder. With a wide, effervescent grin that lit his harsh face like a beacon lit a night sky, he offered one word in response, as if it explained everything.

They would all eventually come to realize that, to him, it did.

"Brother."

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><p><em><strong>Sythius Sil'nathin is a family man. This is a common thread with much of my work. I focus quite heavily on familial relationships; so I suppose it's no surprise that it shows up here. Not in the standard sense, of course.<strong>_

_**But then, my philosophy has always been that you choose your family, no matter what the proverbs say. Family isn't the people to whom you're related, but the ones to whom you relate; not the ones by whom you're surrounded, but the ones with whom you surround yourself; and not the ones with whom you live, but the ones without whom you can't.**_

_**See you next week.**_


	7. Simple Pleasures

_**The response to this particular work has been positive, if a bit quiet, so far. So I'd like to take a moment before we begin this week's outing to thank you for reading.**_

_** Another canon figure shows up in this chapter, this time a prominent one. I hope that I've done him justice. The years I've spent playing WoW have largely been spent in relative solitude from lore figures. Dark, dank dungeons and such. So I only have a vague notion as to the characterizations I should be using.**_

_** But sometimes vague can help. Sometimes, knowing too much about a character can make it difficult bordering on impossible to write them. At least for me.**_

_** In any case, after last week's…performance, let's see Sythius's reception from some of the top brass, shall we?**_

* * *

><p>The grizzled human veteran was tall, well-muscled, and imposing to anyone he had ever met, even his family. He had to crane his neck to look upon the face of Sythius Sil'nathin, who somehow managed to look sheepish and awkward in front of him. The hulking elf did not, however, seem nervous in the sense that most people would. He looked, as he almost always did, like a caged animal ready to tear the throat out of the first thing that threatened him.<p>

Or his cub.

Maxwell Tyrosus looked long and hard at the sleeping elfling still held in the crook of Sythius's arm, but his single working eye—the other was hidden behind a cloth patch—showed no sense of fear or superstition. He turned his attention to the remainder of Lingham's company, giving a nod to Big Olrec Stoutfeather before finally stopping at Lingham.

"How many of them?" the commander asked.

"Final count as of burning was one-hundred-twenty-three, sir," Lingham said.

This made Tyrosus stop short. "That's no skirmish, captain. That's a full-scale assault. There were _no _casualties?"

"We lost one man, after the camp was cleared. Emile Gram. Infected on patrol."

"He…wasn't involved in the attack?"

"No, sir. He was too far gone to fight."

The commander looked over the fifteen soldiers, clearly impressed. "Well done, boys." This was as much praise as any of them could have ever expected from the tight-lipped, thoroughly pragmatic leader of the Dawn. Perhaps that was the reason so many of them immediately started holding up their hands.

"T'wasn't us, Commander," said Alkin, with his simple farm-borne humility. He seemed to be forcing the words from his mouth; still shaking as he was, they came out in a slight tremor. "'Twas the elf." He gestured to Sythius. "Came into camp like a force of nature, 'e did. Turned into a _bear, _'e did."

"Shapeshifter," Tyrosus murmured, eyeing Lingham's rookie with renewed interest. "You're of the Claw, aren't you?"

The druid nodded.

"What banner do you fly, druid?" Tyrosus asked.

Sythius seemed not to understand the meaning of the phrase. He looked confused, and looked around at his fellow soldiers. Dobbs, offering a nervous sort of smirk, said, "He means your allegiance. Who do you fight for? Where do you come from?"

The elf thought long and hard on this, looking down at the ground as he did so. Finally, after nearly thirty seconds, he looked back up at Tyrosus and said: "This Scourge…it is evil. It poisons the earth. I fight to protect the earth."

Tyrosus raised an eyebrow. "Is that right, now? Well, that's fine. Fight for the earth, Druid of the Claw. The Dawn is at your back." He saluted.

Sythius offered one of his predatory grins and saluted back.

That seemed to be the end of it for the both of them. They had reached an understanding. Vant Lingham's company was dismissed, and they all went about their own ways for the scant remainder of daylight hours. Some gathered supplies, some helped with repairs. Big Olrec assisted Rayne with the newly wounded.

As evening fell across the chapel where the men and women of the Argent Dawn made their stand against the tainted wasteland once called Lordaeron, the druid stayed outside the walls, in the cold. His fellows laughed and shouted and fought each other, gambled and shared stories. It all made Sythius nervous, and when Sythius was nervous, things tended to die.

At least, that was how Captain Lingham put it. Sythius thought, in his slow and plodding way, that the man was probably right. The exile sat with his legs crossed, his bundle of an elfling in his lap, stroking back the boy's hair with his fingertips. He wondered where this child had come from. Where his home was. If he had a family. Starved and diseased as he was, the other men said it probably wasn't likely anybody wanted him anymore. He wasn't going to live long enough to make much of a difference. Nobody lived long when the plague had their guts.

"Children do not die," Sythius whispered in his lumbering voice, with more emotion than was typical for him. "You will not die, little one. I will not let you die."

"Big promises," came a scratchy, dwarven voice as Big Olrec approached the elves and sat down next to them. "Ye want to watch the big promises, elf. Dangerous business." He handed a hard loaf of bread to Sythius, who took it without comment. "Saddest days're always born when fools like us make big promises."

"Fools," Sythius repeated.

"Aye. What else ye call a man goes out 'n sheds blood fer a livin'? Hero? Soldier? Patriot? I ain't much fer flowers in me words, elf. We're fools." Sythius seemed to mull on this, looking out at the tortured landscape that surrounded them, lit in otherworldly orange light by flickering torches and throbbing forge-fire. His face, weathered by the harshness of his home but softened by his youth—most of Lingham's company, and Lingham himself, thought that one-hundred-nine years was an eternity; but then, they were human—was pulled in conflicting directions. Sythius trusted Big Olrec. He liked Big Olrec. But what he saw before him was not a place for fools.

The Scourge of Lordaeron had to be cleansed, and Sythius Sil'nathin intended to cleanse it. Everyone was intent on celebrating the great victory he had won for them that day, but the hulking druid did not think that way; he did not think of victories and accolades. All he could think was that the taint of the plague, the thick miasma that soaked the earth here, was painful. He wanted it gone. He would rid this land of it.

His body ached from it, his joints sang in numb agony from it.

Olrec reached into the pack he wore on his back, which was almost as thick as he was, and pulled a bundle of black cloth out from inside of it. He folded this cloth, ceremoniously as though it were his nation's flag, and passed it over to Sythius, who looked at it without understanding.

"Fool 'r not, though, ye've proven yer chops on the field, elf. Commander Tyrosus sent this along for ye." The old dwarf stood, unfurled the bundle, and revealed it to be a tabard, black as midnight with silver trimming, and the gold-and-silver sunburst of the Argent Dawn emblazoned upon it. "Ye've earned yer colors, Sythius o' the Claw. Wear 'em with pride."

Sythius finally seemed to comprehend what Big Olrec was presenting. Another of those bright grins of absolute delight rose on his lips, and Olrec could see in that grin the child that hid behind the corded, sculpted muscle and animalistic fury.

The old, battered shaman had to grin himself, feeling an inexplicable sense of pride as Sythius took the tabard in one of his mammoth hands and regarded it reverently. The sight brought Olrec back seventy years, when he had watched his own trueborn son take up the banner of Ironforge and fly out to the fields of war like a hero straight out of myth.

The former thane of the Stoutfeather Clan only hoped that he wasn't sending _another _child straight to his death.

* * *

><p><em><strong>And so our hero's first true allegiance is born. Or, so we've seen.<strong>_

_** The Argent Dawn has always been one of my favorite factions in Warcraft Lore, and I accordingly spent a lot of time with them. The chance to actually get a tabard of the Argent Dawn for myself during the second Scourge Invasion—as mentioned previously, I missed the first one—was a golden one, and I jumped on it.**_

_** My days in WoW have always been about unfolding a story.**_

_** This story. Sythius's story.**_

_** And it might be, behind all the flowery metaphor and trappings of adventure, my own story. I guess we'll see.**_

_** Thanks again for joining me this week.**_

_** See you next time.**_


	8. Orders from On High

_**Sorry for the delay in today's chapter; I had homework to take care of before I could turn my attention to writing. This chapter introduces a new character, named Jaquet Bristow. She belongs to a good friend of mine, and I've tried my best to keep her intact as I make the transition from talking about her to writing her.**_

_** Play nice with the new kid, everyone.**_

_** Seriously. She's dangerous.**_

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry, Master Stoutfeather," Rayne said, looking as though she were suffering physical pain. "There's nothing I can do for this boy. He's…too far gone. As if the plague weren't enough, the poor darling is traumatized. If he wakes up and sees…any of us, he's completely inconsolable. I can't…there's nothing. I wish there was some final idea that I could try, some…last chance. But there isn't one."<p>

Olrec scowled, his beard quivering. "Devil's work. Ye hear talk of evil in the churches, 'n what it looks like. Ye hear the preachers squawk on how ter fight it, 'n keep it from temptin' ye. There's no temptin' with _real _evil. Weren't no _fightin' _this."

Rayne closed her eyes. "I'm sorry," she repeated.

The dwarf picked up the unconscious elfling and sighed. "He won't hear it. Ye know that, don't ye? Won't give up 'til the lad starts eatin' 'im. Sad a state as the elf's in, 'e might just let 'im do it. Too soft fer this. He's a beast, 'n a fair sight better a fighter 'n most of us…but he's too soft."

A nod. "Yes. You're…right."

"Ye've 'ad words with the man," Olrec said, finally voicing something that had been on his mind for near to a week. "When the Maiden had him. Aye?" Another nod. "And if I'm gonna venture a guess, M'lady, those words weren't pleasant." Nod. "Any chance o' things…fixin' themselves?"

She shrugged. "I'm not sure."

"Mm. Well, no stranger to _that." _Olrec shrugged as well. "I'm gonna go figure out how ter break this to 'im. It won't be pretty."

"No matter what may have happened between us," Rayne murmured, mostly to herself, "I'd not wish this on him. He saved our lives. He threw himself at pure evil and came away with a smile. And now…for _this _to be his reward…? It's not right, Olrec. It's just…not right."

"Aye. Not fer the newbie…an' not for the boy."

As he started his aimless trek about the chapel, the old dwarf had to admit that Rayne was right. Big Olrec Stoutfeather was no stranger to uphill battles; he'd made a military career out of them. But he'd never heard of a single case of the undead plague being cured when it was _this _advanced. The blood elf child with no name was quite literally becoming a skeleton with skin; his over-bright eyes were sunken in, and when he opened them, they were delirious. His extremities were blackened by gangrene, his hair was coming out in clumps, and he was sleeping upwards of twenty hours a day. Soon, the boy would sleep himself straight to death, and wake up a monster.

That he'd held on this long was a miracle in itself.

Ever since he'd been given a tabard, Sythius had been wearing the colors of the Argent Dawn every hour of the day. He spent time outside of patrolling trying to find someone, anyone, who could help his dying companion. Every time he spoke to an officer, he got the same response: they were too strapped. What few healers they had in their employ were so busy with the wounded and dying already that they couldn't spare any time or energy on a case as hopeless as the little blood elf's. Olrec and Rayne were only able to devote the most cursory amounts of time to keep the child comfortable—as comfortable as he could be in his condition—before their duties called them away.

The druid's frustration was coming out as he grew more and more feral. Even when he was in camp, when he was usually halfway civil, Sythius growled much more often than he spoke, and a great number of the younger recruits made a point of avoiding him altogether. Commander Tyrosus made no effort to stop his interrogations of the healers. When Olrec, one of the few soldiers with leave to invade his private tent, asked him about it, the commander said:

"It has not yet come to a point where he is proving a distraction to the others, and his patrols are netting more headway than any other company. The frustration and anger only adds to his effectiveness. It's callous, and it's cruel, and I don't like it. But it works. And out here, what works is what matters. Let him be. If he does eventually become a problem…well, we'll handle it then."

And so the time passed. Captain Lingham took up a new assignment, and his company set to defending the chapel while another band of fighters made their way deeper into the plaguelands. The day passed when Rayne was _sure _the elfling would have turned, and he was still holding on. The day became a week. And yet he remained desperately, pitifully alive.

"He's the most blasphemous miracle I've ever seen," the druidess said.

One day, she received a most surprising visitor. Clad in armor that was richer and more elaborate than most of the men had ever seen, much less owned, she was heard long before she entered Rayne's tent. Turning, the elf found a smile and rose to her feet. "Sir," she said.

Jaquet Bristow, known throughout Lordaeron as the Iron Maiden, waved a metal-swathed hand dismissively. "I've told you, it's Jaquet. Do I look like a _sir? _And before you say 'ma'am,' I'm not one of those, either. Stop insulting me. From what I hear, the big one's causing a stir again. Where's this boy?"

She had a striking red mane of hair that was far brighter and healthier than it had any right to be, and her eyes were even brighter. She was a beautiful woman, and would have been downright enchanting if not for the fact that the scowl on her face could have sent an ogre running for the hills. This explosive woman commanded more awe and respect than most generals, and yet she had no official military record. Jaquet headed a band of hand-selected mercenaries, and had her eyes set on Sythius Sil'nathin joining her ranks.

Once he was properly trained, that was.

Rayne gestured.

Jaquet's face might have shown sympathy at that moment, but it could just as easily have been disgust. "Damn it," she breathed, looking sardonically amused. "The great idiot _would _take in a pathetic case like that. Let me guess: there's no hope for him."

Rayne shook her head. "No." There was no doubt in her voice. No doubt in her heart.

The Maiden sighed. "I'll _talk _some sense into the damned bear." As she turned back toward the entrance to the tent, she added, "You have more important work to be doing. End it clean."

"…Is that an order?"

Jaquet may not have had official command of any soldier at the chapel, but she'd proven herself on the field more than often enough to have _unofficial _command. An order from her was as good as one from the commander.

"Yes."

* * *

><p><em><strong>It might be that this case of the undead plague wouldn't work this way. Indeed, from all indications, it doesn't take very long for someone to turn. This would be especially true for a child. However, there is a very particular reason why he's lasting so long, which I can't reveal just yet.<strong>_

_** Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise, now, would we?**_

_** Thank you for reading, and I hope to see you again next week.**_

_** Take it easy, all.**_


	9. In Search of Hope

_**I apologize for the lateness of this post. I have made a point to update this story, along with my Harry Potter story, "Butterflies and Hurricanes," every Monday. However, school and work got in the way of my working on this story over the weekend like I wanted to, and so I was left only with this afternoon to fine-tune the next leg of this particular journey.**_

_** Nonetheless, I hope that you find this installment enjoyable.**_

* * *

><p>That night, Sythius Sil'nathin found himself waiting on the outskirts of his company's perimeter, grumbling absently in anticipation as he waited for Rayne to arrive. She had sent word to him earlier in the day, which was odd enough; the message had also informed him—or rather, it had informed Big Olrec, who had then informed Sythius, as the exiled druid couldn't read—that Jaquet Bristow would be searching for him, and that he must under no circumstances allow her to find him.<p>

"She is my ally," Sythius had said.

"Not sayin' no way she ain't, lad," Olrec had replied. "Only tellin' ye what M'lady wrote down. Ask me, ye'd better do what she says. Go onna extra patrol 'r summit, an' meet her t'night when the moon sits high o'er yer head." Guessing the reason for the apprehension on Sythius's face, the old dwarf added, "I'll look after the boy, and bring 'im to ye. Now go, Sythius o' the Claw. Afore the Maiden finds ye."

So he went, and so he returned. And so Big Olrec delivered the blood elf to him. All without finding neither plate nor plait of the Iron Maiden. Sythius brooded while he waited for the druidess, wondering in his slow way what she could possibly want to discuss with him. She'd not said a word directly to him—not consciously—for months, since the shapeshifter's first days in the Plaguelands, and for her to suddenly call for him to meet her was mystifying. Big Olrec had no input in regard to this; though he stuck close to his big friend as they waited, clearly curious, he didn't seem to find this turn of events nearly as confusing as Sythius did; indeed, he seemed to have already guessed what this was about.

When Rayne appeared, she looked even more fatigued and paranoid than she usually did. She bowed her head to both of them, and immediately began to speak: "I have been tasked by Mistress Bristow to cease my attempts to heal the boy," gesturing to the bundle in Sythius's arms. "She is of a similar opinion as most officers here: there is no hope for him, and keeping up a pretense of keeping him healthy is taking up resources and time that we do not have."

Sythius's countenance immediately darkened, and Olrec gave him a light smack with the back of one large hand. "Easy, lad," he murmured. "Ye shouldn'a found this surprisin'. What'll ye have of us, M'lady?"

"I can no longer extend my services to you," Rayne said, "but I do not wish to see this child die any more than you do. My work keeps me here at the chapel. But you, Sythius Sil'nathin, with your exemplary service, have earned this chance. I extend it to you personally. Go abroad, and see if you can find someone better able than I."

"I know of no one with credentials like that, M'lady," Olrec said.

Rayne smiled, and held out a sealed scroll to her fellow night elf. "Seek the Cenarion Circle. If you cannot convince any of our comrades to help you, give them this. If I have any influence left with the men and women of Moonglade, I give it to you."

Sythius reached out and took the scroll as though he expected it to snap at him.

"There's nary an elf o' the Circle I can think to sully their hands with a blood elf," Olrec grumbled, "and the tauren ain't much better. Ye're riskin' a lot, puttin' yer name to this errand."

"I risk what I have, and what I am, to fight the plague," Rayne replied stolidly. "This is a part of that fight. Go. Both of you. You two are the only men in this army with the inclination to help this lost child, and I intend for you to take that journey to its end. Find his salvation, or else not cease the search until it leaves."

"I cannae say for certain I'm available ter make such a pledge, M'lady," Olrec said, though he looked pained to be saying it. "Though I don't begrudge the elf takin' leave to mark this task, I'm bound to me work, same's yerself."

"I have spoken to Captain Lingham," Rayne said. "He told me, 'If it will ease the great old idiot, and the great young idiot, to find a grave outside Lordearon for the cursed elfling, let them do it. Light knows the rookies need more practice, anyway. It'd do them good to walk without safety nets for a stretch.'"

Olrec Stoutfeather was chuckling halfway through Rayne's quotation, and by the end of it he was laughing outright. "Well, a'right, then! A quest it is!" He clapped Sythius on the small of his back. "Off we go, then, elf! Let's find us a healer. And if we cannae find one wantin' ter help us, we'll beat the acquiescence out of 'em."

Sythius grinned. Neither in his present company found it frightening anymore. Rayne was smiling, and she bowed again. "Thank you, Master Stoutfeather. I wish you all the luck I can provide." She turned her gaze to the druid. "Sythius," she said, and he straightened. There was a long moment of silence as she contemplated, then: "…Stay well."

Sythius nodded.

"I say we set off afore Vant gets a chance ter change 'is mind," Olrec said, "to say nothing o' Mistress Bristow, d'ya call'er? Let's put the ground to work."

Sythius nodded again.

Rayne approached the bundle, and refrained from touching the boy. Rather, she smiled and said, "Rest easy, little darling. You're in the best hands I know."

And they were gone.

Rayne stood there, watching the pair of soldiers leave, until their steadily-darkening forms melded with the shadows of the horizon. It was a mark of her discipline that she did not flinch, nor did she draw a weapon, as she turned around to see a red-haired, metal-covered soldier clanking toward her.

"Stupid of me to expect you to follow orders," Jaquet Bristow muttered caustically.

_"That _order?" Rayne replied. "Yes. It was. I am not in the business of dealing death. You know that better than anyone."

Jaquet smirked silently.

She said nothing else, but merely followed the druidess back to her tent.

* * *

><p><em><strong>One of the things that makes me feel like these characters are real people is the fact that even I don't know what they mean by what they say sometimes. I haven't the faintest notion what the history between Rayne and Jaquet is. Not because I haven't invented it yet, but because neither of them have told me.<strong>_

_** I think that's a good sign.**_

_** I'll see you next week. Until then, stay well.**_


	10. A Boy Called Kin

_**More than any of my previous projects, this story seems to speak for itself. When I set to write notes for the opening and closing of each scene, I often find myself at a loss for what to say.**_

_** Perhaps that is a good sign. Perhaps that means that I have truly hit upon what I want from this tale of mine. Of course, it could just as easily be a bad sign, but I figure it's safer to err on the side of optimism.**_

_** Especially since events seem to be so bleak in this place.**_

* * *

><p>Dawn broke over the three travelers without pity, and showed them the desolation of their surroundings in all its stark relief; the light from the sun, filtered and discolored by the thick miasma that hung about the air, reminded them that they were in a place where even the earth itself was an enemy.<p>

Far from the sickly waif that was their chief concern, both elf and dwarf were heavy, and their boots sank into the ground as they walked, and made sick squelching sounds as they lifted them to take each successive step. Both were too wreathed in discipline to comment on this—not that Sythius would have spoken in any case—but it was clear by the expressions on both weathered faces that they were none too pleased with the added pressure and resistance; hard enough to travel without a destination when the road was hard and well-tracked. When there was no road to speak of, aimless wandering became the height of torturous exercises.

One night, as the small band gathered about a pitiful fire, the child woke.

His bright eyes were blurred, his face wrought with pain, but he seemed more aware than he had been. The boy began to writhe about in panic until those eyes found the object of the druid. Sythius's own amber gaze drank this in, and he endeavored to smile; far from lurching away in fear, the boy seemed much interested in this.

His cracked lips opened, and he tried to speak.

"By the Light, lad," Olrec murmured breathlessly. "Ye think 'e might be gettin' healthy?"

Sythius seemed not to hear. He scooped up the child and lifted him close to his face, the better to hear. The druid growled soothingly, and Big Olrec—who knew just enough Darnassian to get by—knew that Sythius was telling the boy to be calm.

The child asked something. The lilt was strained, the accent foreign, and Olrec guessed that he must be speaking Thalassian, the derivative language borne of the night elves' tongue that was so prominent on this continent. Sythius frowned, and the shaman thought it must be quite difficult for the young shapeshifter to bend his faculties toward deciphering what these words meant.

_"…Doral…ana'diel?" _Sythius asked with difficulty.

The boy responded.

Strained conversation followed, and all the while Olrec watched, entranced in spite of the fact that he could only make out one word in thirty—he had difficulty enough understanding the voices of fluent elves; these two knew so little that he may as well have been listening to schoolchildren trying to practice without the benefit of a teacher.

Despite this, they seemed to understand each other. There was a connection between them, something primal, something that ran deeper than words. Sythius Sil'nathin was a brutal warrior, with a temper to match, and to watch him in combat was to fear for the future of the world. But with this boy, and indeed with anything of which he was fond, this druid from the wastelands of the north was as tender and docile as any young mother, and for once the smile playing at his lips did not bring out the animal in him.

Strength came to the child as he engaged with his protector, and an exuberance Olrec would not have thought possible, considering his pitiful constitution. The voice was tiny, and cracked, but the sick boy was as animated as his condition would allow; and the more he talked, the more he seemed _able _to talk.

The old dwarf was not nearly as devout as Vant Lingham, who might have been a paladin if he'd been born with the virtue of patience, but Olrec still believed in providence, and here was his proof. He thought that if there was any justice in Heaven, this would not be an isolated incident, some cruel trick of health right before death took this boy forever. Or, he thought, if it had to be, then let it would continue. For here, in this land of death and desperation, both elves seemed more at peace, and indeed happier, than Big Olrec had ever seen them. And that was a blessing all its own, even to someone bearing simple witness to it.

After a while, Olrec decided to do his part to ensure that this conversation would not be interrupted. He drew out his hammers and stalked off to patrol. For he felt no fatigue this night—the boy's improved condition had livened him—and thought he might as well do some good. As he slumped and stomped his way through the marsh-like farmstead where they camped, Olrec looked about himself with something resembling appreciation. He thought that if it weren't for just how depressing and _dank _this forsaken muck-bowl was, the sheer joyblossoming in his chest at seeing two elves carry on meaningless talk would have never been possible.

That was his silver lining, and he took it with a stranglehold.

He met no plagued as he made rounds; no walking things that had no business walking nor biting things that had no business biting, and he was glad for it. Yet he couldn't deny that the quiet solitude of their sojourn had him on edge. Still, Olrec did not fret on this. The edge was where he worked best.

The traumas and ill effects of war had that effect on people.

Sythius welcomed his compatriot with a hearty greeting when Big Olrec returned to camp, and his eyes were sparkling. Damned if it didn't send an old soldier for a loop to see the elfling sitting upright in the druid's lap, looking around with sick but _alert _eyes. The tiny blood elf set them on Olrec, and looked puzzled. He tilted his head back to regard his master, who beamed down at him and murmured something.

"Well met, laddie," said Olrec softly, grinning and holding up a thick hand in greeting.

Sythius whispered.

The boy said, _"Sinu a'manore" _in a quiet, cracking, halting kind of voice. Olrec knew this to be a greeting, a friendly one, and he bowed his head in acknowledgment. This seemed to please the child, who smiled.

Before it is forgotten, to be sure the little one still looked a right mess, bare sticks in a sack of skin as he was, and the smile did little for the haggard tautness of his pale skin. Still, the meaning behind that smile made him lovely, and Olrec felt tears burning the backs of his crinkled eyes.

"What's yer name, child?" he asked.

Bright green eyes blinked at him.

Sythius rumbled.

Still, there was confusion set in the boy's face, and he seemed to sink into deep thought, as though trying to remember. His lips began to move silently, and bare fractions of words could be made out in his ghost of a voice.

"…K-K…Ki…n…?"

Sythius entreated to help his charge. "Kin?" he prompted.

"Kin," the boy repeated, looking up. "Kin."

Whether that was a name, a word, or a mere part of either, made no difference in that dingy camp. From then on, until the end of days, the elfling's name was Kin.

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>Doral ana'diel" can be translated as "How fare you?" in the Thalassian language.<strong>_

_** "Sinu a'manore" means "Well met."**_

_** The character of Kin was the true genesis of Sythius's story; I have always seen him (Sythius, that is, not the boy) first and foremost as a guardian. Not a father, or a mentor, but a protector. My days in raiding put me into the role of feral meat-shield, and thus Sythius's role has become the same.**_

_** It doesn't seem, though, that he minds it much.**_


	11. A Diplomatic Envoy

_**Last week's chapter marked the end of Part 1; this chapter begins a new section of the story. A new setting, and a few new characters will make appearances today.**_

_** Feedback for this story remains rather quiet, but like last time, I'm not mentioning this in an effort to beg for reviews. I simply wish to take a moment to thank those of you who are reading this.**_

_** I hope you enjoy this installment.**_

* * *

><p>In some ways, she held herself in ways that befit a noblewoman and a priestess. In other ways, she did not.<p>

She wore expensive robes with obvious ease and familiarity, yet her stance was rigid and her body language bespoke anxiety. Though she seemed a lady, her people saw her as little more than a child; a promising one, to be sure, but a mere ninety-six years did little to move the expectations of the kaldorei.

Her eyes were a sparkling silver, and would have been enchanting if they were in any way open. But though their crystalline depths were visible, they were also opaque. Anyone seeking to delve deeper into her personality by looking at her would have seen nothing but an immovable wall.

"Is there anything you require?" a soft, deferential voice asked at her side. The priestess looked over at her attendant as they left the ship's ramp and stepped onto Stormwind's harbor.

"No," she said, in a surprisingly soft voice. "Thank you."

The attendant bowed. She beamed at the ship's crew as they brought her lady's luggage—sparse as it was—down off the ship for them. She bowed low. "A thousand thanks to you, good sirs," she said.

The priestess smiled, tight-lipped and amused, and said nothing. However, she too bowed with gratitude toward the young men who assisted them. The young men, for their part, blushed and waved it off before they were shouted back into shape by their captain, who was now leaning over the edge of the vessel.

"Ah…'fit's not too much trouble, misses," said one of the crewmen, "mightn't we know yer names? Ne'er 'ad elves such's yerselves on passage wit'us afore."

The attendant looked nervous.

The priestess smiled. "Sylvanne," she offered.

Emboldened, the attendant said, "Kayli."

The crewman looked mesmerized, and nodded with a dopey grin on his face. "Remember 'm forever, I will." He bowed. "Johl's m'own name, misses. An honor to've you aboard. Hope yer business goes well."

"Thank you, Johl," Sylvanne said, and reached out. Where her slender fingers met the young man's forehead, a soft shimmer met the air, and the human's face went slack for a moment. _"Ande'thoras-ethil," _she murmured.

Johl stood, dumbstruck, until his captain threw what appeared to be a brick at him. Sylvanne turned and began to walk, Kayli just beside her. The younger elf—they looked of an age, but in reality three decades separated them—stared openly at the vast human settlement. As they walked, she began talking rapidly in Darnassian, looking every bit like a tourist; which, of course, she was. This was Kayli's first time seeing humans on any large scale, and she clearly found the experience…invigorating.

_"Shall we find proper lodging for your night, Mistress?" _she asked after a while, noting Sylvanne's silent introspection. _"You must be exhausted."_

Sylvanne shook her head. "I am fine," she said, in the common tongue. She held out her hand. "Go on. See the sights to your content. I'll find a place for us to stay." Kayli looked mystified, and almost offended. "Go, girl. I can see that you long to explore. My father has placed you in my charge for this journey, and I thus give you leave. Go."

Torn between following orders and following protocol, Kayli hesitated a long moment before finally surrendering her lady's belongings and rushing off into the heart of the city. Sylvanne watched her go, chuckling beneath her breath.

Bereft of her companion, the young priestess resumed her severity. The people there took notice. Guards nodded in greeting; peasants cleared away from her; thieves watched her keenly, with soft smiles playing devilishly at their lips. She noticed none of them, walking like a warden on patrol.

The day passed quietly. Sylvanne did not bother to ask how Kayli managed to find her, because there was no point. She had known already, which was why it struck her as completely normal to be spending one moment surveying the city from the window of the room she'd purchased for the week, then to turn and note the very next moment that Kayli stood in the doorway. _"Mistress," _she said, bowing.

"Have you had your fill?" Sylvanne asked. "The sun has not set."

Frowning curiously in response to her lady's insistence on using "low language," as she had heard it called more than once, Kayli endeavored to imitate her. "…I am content. For now. Why…have you chosen this place?" She gestured about Sylvanne's room, which was clean but very plain, and very small. "There are inns, proper places to…suit your station."

Her accent was halting; she had little practice in any language but her own.

Unlike Sylvanne, who spoke with the smooth ease of a foreign ambassador: "I chose a place to suit _me, _Kayli, not my station."

Kayli did not seem pleased by this. "…Master told me. To look after you. This…"

"Will suit me fine, Kayli," Sylvanne interrupted, raising a placating hand. "Ease your mind. As you say, I am content. Now sit, and tell me what you have seen."

From the sound of it, Kayli had explored the entire city of Stormwind twice over. She had visited the gardens of the Park District—"Madame would love them," she said, speaking of Sylvanne's mother—and the spiraling works of architecture on display in the Cathedral District. She had asked a guard about the great statues that guarded the front entrance to the city, and had been treated to a tour which had ended at Stormwind Keep itself, where she had been permitted to meet the boy king, Anduin Wrynn himself.

So flustered was she in telling these things to her lady, Kayli was shaking with excitement and did not notice for a number of seconds that Sylvanne was laughing. She pouted. _"Why do you laugh so, Mistress?"_

"It is simply a delight to see you so animated," Sylvanne replied, grinning at her. For once, both elves looked their age. "At home you are always so proper. I do not think I have heard you speak so loosely since the days your parents would ask me to tutor you. Tell me, Kayli; what did the young king say?"

"He…welcomed me to Stormwind," Kayli said, blushing. "He said…it was heartening," she struggled over the word, "to see someone so…interested in his city. He asked how long I would be staying. I…told him that I was here with my mistress. The king…the king asked about you. And I said you were a great priestess, traveled here for an audience with Lord Shadowbreaker." She flinched, as if wondering whether she had broken confidence by telling these things. Sylvanne was unconcerned. "The king…he says he should like to meet you. He has invited you to dine with him, whenever it suits your time and mood."

Sylvanne looked surprised at this. She stood. "Is this why you have returned so early? To tell me this?"

"Yes, Mistress."

Kayli looked up, and could see that the priestess was calculating. Her eyes seemed to spin in their sockets, but it was not with panic; it was with something resembling excitement. Some color had come into her normally pale face. "This is very good," Sylvanne said. "Thank you, Kayli. You have done me a service. Fetch a message back to the good king, won't you?"

"He has sent guards with me," Kayli said. "They wait in the hall for your answer."

Sylvanne swept through the door to her room and was met with two hulking human men, flanking a human woman; all three were dressed in shining steel armor and marked with the lion of their house. They bowed deeply as one. "My companion tells me that His Majesty wishes to meet with me."

The woman nodded. "He does."

"When and how would be best suited to His Majesty's wishes? For I am much honored by his invitation and wish to accept it."

"Whenever suits your business, milady," growled one of the men, inclining his head. Kayli ventured out behind her mistress and noticed that Sylvanne's attention was arrested by this man; something like familiarity was written on her face.

"Might it be in two days, in the early evening?" Sylvanne asked.

"That would be suitable," the woman said.

"Very good, then. Thank you. And please extend my gratitude to King Wrynn. This is most gracious."

The three guards bowed again.

"Of course, Lady Sil'nathin."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Ande'thoras-ethil = "May your troubles be diminished" in Darnassian.<strong>_


	12. The Priestess of Elune

_**I am not feeling well, and cannot guarantee that I will do anything more productive than stare at the ceiling and pray for death tomorrow, so I'm putting this up early. If any errors pop up in this narrative, I will get to them, but it will have to wait until I'm feeling better.**_

_** Last chapter may have counted as ending on a cliffhanger; if so, the reveal happens here. The mystery is solved. Sort of. In any case, I hope that you find this installment enjoyable. And, as always, thank you for reading.**_

_** Let's begin.**_

* * *

><p>Olrec left Sythius and Kin camped in Elwynn Forest, where they both felt more comfortable, and where they were less likely to be set upon by swords and pikes and torches. Plague-infested blood elves were no more acceptable in human territory than they were anywhere else.<p>

"Perhaps it is not the plague," Sythius mused, when the subject of the boy's incredible longevity was brought up again. "Perhaps it is something else."

"Might'n be, lad," Olrec said, "but I'd be lyin'f I said 'e didn' look like a plaguer. You two stay outta sight. Let the dwarf find some manner o' help. Aye?"

Sythius nodded; Kin said and did nothing, for he had gone back to sleeping most of the day, unable to keep his unnatural eyes open for longer than a few minutes at a time. Typically, he was awake just long enough to take down some broth or water.

Big Olrec was known in Stormwind, as he was known in many places; folk knew his name, and his face, but little of his nature. He gave a boisterous greeting whenever his name was called, but otherwise made his laborious way through the crowded human capital without much idea of what he was doing.

He had Rayne's letter with him, but what good was it to do here? The best he could hope to find was a trade ship in the harbor with a captain opportunistic enough to ignore a Horde's bastard onboard his vessel, so that they might reach Kalimdor where a druidess's honor was actually worth something.

If Kin lived that long.

Providence shone on Big Olrec Stoutfeather that day, as he stepped into the Cathedral District. A sudden thought occurred to the dwarf as he gazed upon the huge, sprawling edifice that gave this section of the city its name. As he reached the wide, carpeted stairs that led up into the Cathedral of Light, he felt emotions stir up in him that had lain dormant for what felt like decades, and he felt a sudden urge to take a knee.

Olrec ignored this, and climbed the steps with a solemn, almost grim expression.

The church was bustling; services had just let out for the morning, and a great number of citizens, dolled up in their best clothes, were making their way outside. A few turned their noses at the gruff, woebegone shaman—who most certainly did _not _look fit to enter such a holy place—but most gave him no notice at all. A couple, recognizing the odd badge that fastened his cloak as a commission from the Dawn, bowed their heads to him. He deferred a nod to them, and pointedly ignored the rest.

Someone was at an organ, and music overtook the grand halls; Olrec wondered if a wedding was taking place, but quickly put that thought from his mind as he remembered his mission, and his target. Across the mirrored marble floors he went, this way and that through the regal hallways, stomping and brooding.

And hoping.

He found the object of his thoughts hidden in the library, seated at a long table with two night elf women; one looked high-born, straight-backed and stern. The other had the look of a servant, straining to emulate her mistress but quite visibly failing. The noblewoman had blue hair, held back in an elaborate braided tail, and was dressed in soft silver robes made of silk. The other was dressed more plainly, in breeches and a tunic fit for hard travel, and had light green hair cut straight but simple at her shoulders, with no discernible style whatsoever. Both were stunningly beautiful, as was the case with most elves, but Olrec only paused a moment to consider that.

He turned to the human that was with them. "Grayson," Olrec said without preamble, when there was a lull in the conversation. Five eyes turned to regard him; the human's right one was hidden behind a patch of leather.

"…Olrec?" said Grayson Shadowbreaker, face going slack with surprise. "Is it…Big Olrec?" He stood. "By the Light, it _is _the old fool!" A grin broke on that weathered face. "Pardon me, ladies, please. Come over here, sit. Sit."

Olrec sat, nodding to the elves. "Beggin' pardon, for me dress and me rudeness interruptin' ye. Got'n emergency."

"What sort of emergency?" Shadowbreaker asked, the grin dropping in favor of a studious frown. The noblewoman looked keenly interested, not at all nonplussed at this intrusion. The servant looked offended enough for both of them. "It must be dire, to drive you from your work in Lordaeron."

"Plaguer," said Olrec, and Shadowbreaker went pale. "Best our lot's been able to do is contain it so's it don't spread, 'n somehow e's lived long enough to make it 'ere." Olrec's eyes narrowed. "Listen close, Grayson. I won' ask ye twice, on accounta knowin' well what I ask of ye. But this case will right test yer faith, if'n ya agree to see 'im. What say, paladin? Has the Light got room in ye fer a favor?"

"Of course," was the reply, without hesitation. Shadowbreaker stood. He turned to the women. "I beg pardon, Miss Kayli, Madam Sil'nathin. I must ask that we reconvene later."

Olrec blinked. "Sil'nathin?" he repeated, and looked at the noblewoman. "Did 'e say yer name's Sil'nathin, m'lady?"

"He did, and it is," the noblewoman said. "Forgive me, but have we met?" She asked this without any semblance of chagrin, and Olrec immediately found that he liked her. "I know not your name, though you seem to know mine."

"Olrec Stoutfeather, m'lady," Olrec said, bowing deeply, "and ye'd nae have cause t' know me."

"You speak of plague," said Madam Sil'nathin.

"Aye," Olrec said. He gestured to his badge. "This trinket 'ere marks me for the Argent Dawn, and we fight off nary a plague but the worst'un out there: undeath. One o' me brothers in the fight's got a shinin' ter a tiny little lad, thinner 'n sticks, and we're lookin' fer some way t' banish the damnation from 'im."

"A child?"

"Aye."

"Take me to him." Madam Sil'nathin stood from her chair, gathered up her cloak, and walked round the table. "I am a priestess, taught in the ways of Elune. It may be that I can assist you."

"Mistress!" the other, Miss Kayli, said. "Are you certain—"

"Quiet, Kayli."

"I ask ye this, m'lady, afore I take ye," Olrec said. "I'd know yer name."

"Sylvanne."

"A'righty, then, Sylvanne Sil'nathin, priestess taught in the ways o' Elune…tell me on account o' this name, 'n what it may mean to ye: Sythius."

The shaman wasn't certain if there would be any reaction at all; he was not so well-versed in the ways of elves to know whether Sil'nathin was a common surname or a rare one. The last thing he might have expected was for Sylvanne to rush over to him, quicker than she had any right to be in those elaborate robes she wore upon her thin frame, grip him by the cloak, and stare at him as though he had just pissed on her mother's grave.

Nonetheless, that was what happened.

"Why do you say that name?" Sylvanne demanded. Shadowbreaker looked stunned, Kayli mortified. "Tell _me _what that name means to you! _Speak!"_

"Madam Sil'nathin—" the paladin began, holding up a placating hand, but Olrec shook his head.

After studying the elf woman's face for a long while—she was quite young, now that he got a real look at her, barely more than a child—Olrec decided that it wouldn't do to hide from her. So he said, calm and unabashed, "Not long afore now, the biggest elf I ever saw came ter the Dawn, out'n the Plaguelands o' Lordaeron. Did a few missions fer us, then got transferred t' me company, under Cap'n Vant Lingham. Gave 'is name as Sythius Sil'nathin. Fights fer the earth, 'e says. Exiled from 'is home, 'e says."

"He is a druid?" Sylvanne asked breathlessly, her voice shaking with suppressed emotion.

"Aye," said Olrec, "o' the Claw. Changes 'is shape inter the biggest bear yer ever li'ble t' see. Blue hair, not far from yers, m'lady. Taller 'n most of 'is kind, thick's a tree with muscle, sharp teeth 'n wild eyes."

"Where is he now?"

"Mistress—"

_"Silence!"_ Sylvanne snapped her head around to glare at Kayli, and Olrec's suspicion of her being a servant were clad in iron as the green-haired elf lowered her eyes and fell dead silent. Sylvanne turned back to Olrec. "Please, Master Stoutfeather, tell me: where is this druid now?"

"The forest," Olrec said, hoping he was not making a mistake, "outside the city. Not too comf'ble in cities, 'e is. Thought it best t' come in meself first. Now, I answered ye true. I'd ask the same in return: who's 'e to yerself, m'lady Sil'nathin?"

Sylvanne drew in a shaking breath, eyes misty with tears she refused to shed, and she stood back, composing herself with a kind of self-control that Olrec had seen only rarely, in no one with such a young and pretty face as hers.

When Sylvanne spoke next, it was in a tone of calm assurance, but Olrec could hear the same emotions that had nearly overtaken her, trembling beneath it.

"…He is my brother," she said.


	13. Authority

_**My apologies for the lateness of this chapter. Yesterday was one of the few days that my new roommate and I were able to get together to make moving plans; we're finding our own place in a couple months, and had to get things set in motion.**_

_** Instead of forcing this chapter out late last night, I decided it would be better served by extra time and consideration. Hence, the delay. Again, I apologize, but I hope that you understand the quality of the story was at stake.**_

_** Next week's chapter will be up as scheduled.**_

* * *

><p>Olrec was used to walking quickly so as to keep up with the strides of his longer-limbed compatriots, but he was breaking into an all-out run just to keep Sylvanne Sil'nathin in his line of sight as she swept in and out of the afternoon rush of residents and tourists through the Trade District. Kayli seemed torn between following her mistress's lead and running for help; at the mention of the name "Sythius," she'd gone pale—with just the barest hint of green—and seemed thoroughly nonplussed at how desperate Sylvanne apparently was to see him—such behavior seemed out of place for her.<p>

Olrec did not bother to ask; whatever the big elf had done to earn exile explained Kayli's reaction easily; it was Sylvanne that had the shaman curious. He said nothing. This was no time for words. Once the trio made their way across the central bridge and outside the city limits, Sylvanne stopped and waited for Olrec to take the lead—he did so without comment.

The old dwarf found Sythius, looking despondent and panicky—a bad combination for any soldier—as he watched little Kin, who was hunched over and retching up the watered broth he had gulped down that morning for breakfast. It struck Olrec that, as sad and sorry a sight it was, it was probably a blessing in disguise; there was no race on Azeroth more prejudiced against Kin's kind than the kaldorei, and it was probably for the best that the child's first impression be made with his eyes scrunched closed.

It was a wonder that Sylvanne was able to keep her fine robes in order in the well- guarded but still wild Elwynn Forest; it only took her the barest of moments to collect herself and present a mask of neutrality. Kayli was not nearly as successful, hiding behind the other two and trembling such that she might have been suffering a seizure, though whether this was borne of terror or anger was unclear.

When Sythius looked up to see who had encroached upon this private misery, there was no reading his expression; certainly, as feral and sharp-reflexed as he was, the druid had sensed their presence long before now. He'd simply decided that now was the time to regard them, as Kin moaned piteously and tried to hide from the world.

Amber eyes found silver; brother's eyes found sister's.

The world stopped to watch, and listen.

Sythius let out a breath he had been holding. Sylvanne clenched her thin, delicate-seeming hands into fists and then let them drop again. Kayli continued to shake.

The druid stood.

Sylvanne took a step forward.

"Mistress…" came Kayli's quivering voice, like the prayer of a desolate acolyte to her deity. But Sylvanne only had eyes for the man in front of her.

Sythius moved closer. He seemed apprehensive.

And then, all at once, with no visible catalyst, both rushed forward at once. The druid swept the priestess up into his mammoth arms and all but crushed her to him. There were no words, no cries, no sobs. Only silent reunion.

Olrec grinned, but did not miss from the corner of his eye the almost mortified expression on the servant's face. He elected merely to make a mental note of it, and remained silent. Sylvanne's thin arms clung to Sythius's neck; her feet were several inches off the ground. She was tall, but could not hope to match her brother's height. It should have looked ludicrous, that embrace, but somehow it didn't.

Somehow, it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

A self-contained eternity passed before Sythius finally set the girl down—for indeed, as disciplined as she seemed to be, Sylvanne Sil'nathin /was/ a girl—and beamed down at her. There was something in that smile that Olrec had never seen: understanding. Here, with this priestess, Sythius Sil'nathin understood exactly where he was, what he was, who he was.

"Dear one," the druid murmured, sounding just as tender and docile as he ever had with Kin, and Sylvanne's smile—already threatening to overtake her—widened. "Of all places to find you…of all times to see you…" He seemed perfectly willing to stare at her for the rest of his waking days; it was Sylvanne who turned the subject back to the boy, who still shook and whimpered on the forest floor.

She kneeled down. "What has befallen this child, Brother?" she asked.

"Plague," Olrec said, and Kayli flinched. Sylvanne merely turned a curious gaze on him. "As I was fit ter tell Grayson, this'n tests the faith. I beg ye, m'lady, remember mercy afore ye turn to this lad. I hear tell ye can feel it in 'em."

Sylvanne's delighted expression turned somber. She frowned.

"Yer brother's been fightin' 'longside the Argent Dawn, m'lady. One o' the best damn recruits the order's e'er had, mark me. Found this little one, too stubborn to believe 'im dead. None o' our healers, meself included, cannae do for 'im."

"You are trained, dear one," Sythius murmured, taking a knee beside her and putting a hand on Kin's trembling shoulder. "You…are chosen."

Sylvanne bit her lip nervously.

"Mistress," Kayli said, but she was ignored.

"I have trained, Brother," Sylvanne admitted. "I have trained with our best. But I know not whether I've the power to combat plague. This…this boy is…" Her frown deepened, and she reached out.

The priestess rolled Kin onto his back and her hand inched toward his sunken face. Sythius wrapped one of his own hands, almost ludicrously huge compared to his sister's thin wrist, and murmured, "My sister...do you trust in me?"

Sylvanne blinked. "Of course," she answered without hesitation.

Sythius watched her face for a long moment before he nodded, and relinquished his grip. Sylvanne pulled at one of Kin's eyelids, revealing a blankly agonized bright green eye. To her credit, the priestess did not react visibly, nor even physically; though she did take in a sharp breath.

Kin's illness chose that moment to seize him, and his tiny body heaved with another fit of vomiting, though nothing remained in his stomach. Olrec hissed, and Sylvanne closed her eyes. She held out a hand, and began to whisper something.

A soft, moonlike glow began to thrum about her hand, and a moment later, Kin had calmed; a moment later, he sighed with relief. A m—

Hands clawed at Sylvanne's thin frame and snatched her away, with such suddenness and panicked force that no one—not Sylvanne, not Olrec, and not Sythius—could understand for a moment what had just happened.

Kayli stood over her mistress, who was now flat on her back. Breathing hard, the young servant looked torn between horror and disgust. She said, harsh and confused, "Mistress! I was tasked by your father to watch you! I cannot allow you to waste your gifts on such monsters!"

The dwarf shaman stared, slack-jawed.

Sylvanne was stunned to speechlessness.

For a wonder, Sythius recovered first.

He stood, lifted Kin into his arms. "…Thank you, dear one," he said, strangely distant and almost professional. "You…helped him. But you should not anger your father with this. You must not soil your hands. I will find someone else."

Sylvanne all but threw Kayli aside as she struggled to her knees; Sythius began to walk. "Brother!" she called. "Where will you go?"

"I will go to Mother," Sythius said, with grim finality.

"Brother!" Sylvanne was back on her feet. "Sythius! You cannot."

The druid turned. "I must. Olrec has brought you to me. You cannot do this. You must not anger your father for this."

It did not escape Olrec's notice that he kept saying "your father."

"I will find someone who can."

The strange part of it was, Sythius did not sound reproachful. It simply sounded as though he were stating cold facts.

"Hold on, elf," Olrec said.

Sythius stopped.

Sylvanne took a step toward her brother, but Kayli reached out and grasped her arm. "Mistress," she said, trying to sound stern, "In the name of your father, I cannot allo—"

_"You were not given permission to speak!"_

Kayli quailed, and one of Olrec's fists found its hammer.

Rage—not just anger or irritation but real fury—boiled off the young priestess like waves of physical heat, and she suddenly seemed ten feet tall. She turned a withering glare on her companion. She seemed bathed in light, wreathed in it.

Engulfed by it.

"If you will remind me of my _place _below my father," she hissed, and her voice echoed and shook the leaves, "then I will remind _you_ of yours. You do not deliver orders to me. You do not remove me from my actions. I answer to _Elune_. If you are so _stupid _as to think I place my father's wishes above those of my goddess, then I will treat you like the servant you are destined to remain. Be silent, be still, and do not touch me. My brother is no monster of yours. You will call him _master_, or you will call him nothing. Am I understood?"

Kayli fell to her knees, shaking with unabashed terror.

Sylvanne whirled on a heel, returning her attention to her brother.

Sythius was gone.


	14. Oakwalker

_**As is often the case with these projects of mine, people show up out of the blue. This story is somewhat unique, in that while most of the cast is laid out for me (as is typical with fanfiction), they are—for the most part—my own.**_

_** Sythius, as has been mentioned, is my druid. He is also the sole level-85 character on my World of Warcraft account.**_

_** Sylvanne is my priest, hovering in the mid-60s.**_

_** Olrec is my shaman, a lowly 17.**_

_** But Kayli is as new to me as she is to you.**_

_** I wonder what role she will play in the future of this tale.**_

* * *

><p>Big Olrec Stoutfeather was no stranger to the politics between master (mistress) and servant. He said nothing as the two night elf maidens stared at each other, one in abject fury and the other in rampant terror.<p>

"If ye'd seek ter catch up t' him," he said a moment later, softly but firmly—this was no place for sheepishness, "I'd suggest ye start movin'. Here in th' wilderness, the druid's at an advantage."

Sylvanne turned to look at the dwarf. "Of course," she said quickly. "You would, of course, return to your comrade. I would accompany you." She glared again at Kayli, then turned her attention back to Olrec. "Though I admit I am to attend to a meeting with the good King Wrynn on the morrow."

"Then we'd best be quick, m'lady."

Olrec set to moving, following Sythius's trail. It was more difficult than one might have thought, considering the size of the man. But he was a shaman, and he knew the turns and twists of forests. Sylvanne met his stride some moments later, with Kayli following sheepishly behind.

Olrec caught a glance at the young servant every once in a while; she moved gracefully, with ease and confidence, though her face bespoke supreme discomfort. Eventually, Olrec sighed and murmured, softly, "Yer attendant's got a question on 'er lips. She'd not seek ter anger ye, m'lady, and I'd not presume ter encroach on yer affairs. But if ye'd seek an old dwarf's opinion, a matter o' this nature cannae be left t' fester."

Sylvanne scowled, but after all she _was _young, and Olrec had always exuded a quiet sort of authority. She nodded, rather curtly, and said without looking back, "You would ask a question of me, Kayli. Speak freely."

"…Your esteemed father has spoken to me on the subject of…of your brother. I remember well his exile. You must, as well. I…I merely wished to…to—I don't understand! You know what he did! How can you defend him?"

Anger met Sylvanne's face again, but she mastered it.

Her face a mask of neutrality, the priestess said: "You know what you have been told. I know the truth. The sad truth. My brother is no villain. He has accepted the mantle of a criminal because he cares nothing for reputation. If you needed proof of that, realize that he is now seeking to enter the land from which he has been cast forever, with a plague-infected member of the sin'dorei in tow."

"You see such blasphemy as heroic?" Kayli asked incredulously.

Again, Sylvanne controlled her anger.

"Where you see blasphemy, I do indeed see nobility. Surely you saw the size of that child. How old do you think he is, Kayli?"

"…Some ten years. Perhaps."

"And do you think that in ten years, he would have been able to make the conscious choice to blaspheme _anyone, _least of all a race of people he has never met?"

"I…do not know."

"He was _fed _fel energy, Kayli. There is no other way for it. Even the most gifted of sorcerers do not harness their gift in so little time as to have fallen into corruption in so short a span."

"I did not…think of that."

"No. You did not. You also did not think of what it means, that my gifts made themselves manifest for the boy. It is the will of Elune that I perform the task that you interrupted. I, like my brother, will heal the sick. I care nothing for ideology, nor race, nor history. If my goddess bids me to do my part, then I will do it."

She would say no more on the subject. Kayli, sensing this, fell silent again.

There was guilt on her face, and chagrin, but not so much confusion anymore.

For a solid hour, the three companions trekked through the forest of Elwynn. In a clearing some half a mile east of where they'd started, they found the young blood elf huddled in his savior's cloak, lying against the white fur of a gigantic bear. Sylvanne stopped dead, Kayli gasped and reached for a weapon, but Olrec merely chuckled.

"Never seen 'im transform, have ye?" he asked. "Meet Sythius, Druid o' the Claw, rising star o' the Argent Dawn. Them claws've taken down more Scourge soldiers'n most the rest of us put together."

"The stars be praised…" Sylvanne whispered. "He _has _done it." She began to step forward, as though in a trance. Olrec made to stop her, but decided against it. Nonetheless, he drew one hammer from his belt and held it at the ready, unsure what it was that he intended to do. The white bear was near on five times his size, as savage a beast as had ever walked Azeroth's wilds.

The priestess reached out. She touched the white fur.

Sythius's gigantic eyes snapped open, and he was up with a growl of such primal fury that Olrec went stiff, and nearly lost his grip on his weapon. Then those eyes caught sight of Sylvanne, stared at her—still he snarled.

"Brother…" she whispered. "Do you know me? Do you know my mind? My heart? Be at ease. I will help you."

The growl turned soft, and the bear began to shrink.

Soon, the elf druid knelt before his sister; only the eyes were the same.

"Are you angry with us?" Sylvanne asked, not sheepishly but directly.

Sythius blinked, as though he had no idea what she meant by the question. "No," he said. He stood, and removed himself from Sylvanne's way. She lowered to the forest floor and held her hands over Kin. He moved his gaze slowly to Kayli, who was staring at him, terrified.

The exile's face scrunched up in thought.

Finally he said, as if seeing her for the first time, "…Oakwalker."

Kayli blinked. "W-What?"

"Tanavar…Oakwalker. You look like him." Sythius spoke slowly, unsure of the words.

"He is my father," Kayli said, mystified.

The big elf grinned his signature grin, clearly pleased with himself.

Kayli's tentative, fearful smile was answer enough.

Olrec nodded in satisfaction.

The trouble had passed.


	15. Kings and Priests and Shapeshifters

_**I took a break from this story to focus on schoolwork. Thanks to that break, I managed to bring home a 4.0 this semester, bringing my cumulative GPA for the year up to a 3.53. I thank you for your patience, and humbly ask forgiveness.**_

_**This installment is a link in the chain, I suppose you could call it. A stepping stone. It's not the most exciting chapter, but I do hope that it will shed some light on the characters I'm working with, here. That, after all, is my most important job as a writer. To make these people live, and breathe, and think.**_

_**For those of you who are enjoying this story, and want to see some of my original work with fantasy settings, might I suggest keeping an eye on my new Facebook profile (look for the "Iced Blood" from Lodi, CA). I am posting daily updates to a new blog, "The Cottage at the Edge of Forever," and each update is posted on that profile. This project is dedicated to original fiction with a bend toward the fantastic, and were this story not fanfiction, it would fit right in.**_

_**If you decide to take a look, thank you very much. I hope that you enjoy it, and that you enjoy this installment.**_

_**See you next time.**_

* * *

><p>"I will have you watch over this boy while we attend to the king," Sylvanne said to Kayli, who was disciplined enough to hide her discomfort at such an arrangement. "It would do you well, I think, to spend time with this face of blasphemy. Perhaps you will see what my brother has seen, and what I well intend to see."<p>

"I am being punished," Kayli murmured.

"Think of it as such if you like," Sylvanne said, waving a hand. "I have done what I can to curb his sickness. The plague has a surprisingly soft grip on him, though it runs deep." She turned to Olrec. "From what I understand, undeath usually falls upon its victims like a wave. In this boy, it seems content to creep up his legs like an inching tide."

Olrec blinked. "Ye sense this?" he asked.

"I do."

The dwarf's brow knitted in study as he regarded the elfling, who was lying unconscious in a sea of pillows. Sylvanne had taken him back to the room where she was staying, at the Gilded Rose, and had surrendered her bed to him. Olrec had used every gift he possessed, every bit of knowledge he had ever learned, and had not sensed such a thing as this fledgling priestess had.

"Where is my brother?" Sylvanne asked.

"Tryin' ter clean 'imself up," Olrec replied, grinning. "Ne'er met a king afore."

Sylvanne chuckled. "You would not know from his habits, but he comes from…shall we say, noble stock. Our father is one of Ashenvale's most well-regarded officials. Our mother is renowned in the Cenarion Circle."

"…That so?"

"Indeed." Her smile widened. "Perhaps we should check on him?" She turned her attention back to Kayli. "You understand what must be done? He must be brought up to eat and drink regularly. The sickness burns through whatever nutrition we might give him. We have no choice but to outrun it."

Kayli nodded, looking grim. "I will do as you ask, Mistress."

Sylvanne beamed at her. "Well and good. Thank you." She regarded Olrec as she stepped over to the doorway.

They found Sythius in an adjacent room, staring bewildered into a mirror and struggling to shave the thick, not-quite-beard stubble on his face. A number of razors lay scattered (and broken) about the giant's feet. He had cut himself a number of times already, and as they watched, he nicked the end of his chin, growled, shook his head, and snapped the damnable instrument clean in half.

He stared down at his hand, looking—as he almost always did—like a wild animal taught to walk on two limbs; frustrated and pitiful. Sylvanne stepped inside. "Brother," she said, and he turned to look at her. "Might we assist you?"

Sythius growled, which might have been assent. It could just as easily have been a warning.

Olrec let out a low, deep chuckle. "A regular savant, lad. 'At's just what ye are."

Together, the two healers managed to right the innumerable wrongs crisscrossing over the lower half of the druid's face. Olrec, no stranger to thick hair, managed to work Sythius's mane into submission, and Sylvanne fixed his clothing. He wouldn't pass as the nobleman their father would have wanted him to be, but he did cut a striking figure, and had the unmistakable bearing of a soldier.

As they were preparing to leave, the young priestess picked up her sibling's tabard, and looked at the sunburst pattern with a mixture of pride and fear. As she handed it to him, and he slipped it reverently over his head, she said, "How is it you came to join the Argent Dawn? I was told that you had eked out a home in the roof of Kalimdor."

Sythius's eyebrows raised, then furrowed, as he seemed to think on this. "I felt…I must act. Drive back…darkness. Undeath is darkness. I must undo it." He did not seem to be speaking to his sister, so much as putting words to something he didn't think about consciously very often. Olrec thought, as he listened, that this man wasn't quite sure _what _he intended to do. Small wonder he wouldn't listen to anyone who told him his mission was impossible; he didn't know what his mission _was._

Nonetheless, there was something in Sylvanne's face that told the old dwarf that she understood him. She heard something that Olrec didn't, because there was a kind of reverence, even worship, in her eyes.

She put a hand on her brother's arm. "Come, Brother. Let us see the king."

Sythius nodded, and the three of them left the room. They met three soldiers from the Stormwind Royal Guard outside the inn. They looked questioningly at Sythius, then spied Olrec and looked surprised. They saluted. "Master Olrec," one of them said. "We did not know you had arrived in the city."

"Aye. Unexpected mission. Hear told this lass's got'n audience with th' king. Mightn't I join 'er?"

"Of course. And this…gentleman?"

"Me partner," Olrec said, and Sythius flushed with pleasure at the sound of it. He grinned. "New recruit. Made quite a name fer 'imself on the field."

"If you've taken him on as a partner," one of the others, a large human man that nonetheless looked tiny compared to the druid, "he must have."

"He is my brother," said Sylvanne.

The guards seemed surprised by this. Aside from hair color, there was no real resemblance between the two siblings. Nonetheless, they inclined their heads and gestured for the three companions to follow them.

The small party marched through the city, earning no small amount of curious glances as they headed for Stormwind Keep, a huge white fortress nestled in the northeast corner of the city. The floors were covered by lavish, expansive rugs. They passed the royal library—only Sylvanne gave it a glance; Olrec had seen it before, and Sythius had no use for books. They were quick, as though on an important mission, and did not stop walking until they had reached a private council chamber behind the throne room.

The chamber was dominated by a gargantuan, heavy wood table, its mammoth legs carved into the likeness of the regal, royal lion that was the city's greatest symbol. At one end of the table, a human soldier sat; he was dressed in armor that made the trappings of the royal guards look like cheap tin, and a huge sword sat in a tooled scabbard against the back of his chair. He had chestnut-colored hair and a trimmed beard. He turned when the group entered, revealing bright, cutting, scrutinizing eyes.

"Regent-Lord Bolvar Fordragon," murmured Olrec, seeing that Sythius's attention was drawn to the man.

Sitting opposite Bolvar was a young woman, sultry and seductive, in a simple but alluring black dress that perfectly accentuated her lithe figure. She also turned to regard the new arrivals, and she also seemed to stare straight into their souls.

When Sythius set his amber gaze upon this woman, his face immediately darkened, and he began to growl low in his throat. Olrec sent an elbow into the druid's gut. "Watch yerself, elf. That's Lady Katrana Prestor. Royal councilor."

Between these two, sitting at the head of the table, was a much, much smaller figure.

A blond human boy no older than eleven smiled brightly at them, and stood up. Bolvar and Katrana stood as well. The boy-king of Stormwind opened his arms and declared, in a young but strong voice, "Welcome to my hall. Please, make yourselves comfortable. I'm so grateful that you've agreed to meet with me."

Sylvanne bowed deeply, and Olrec took a knee. "The gratitude is mine, milord," the priestess said.

"A pleasure, Majesty," Olrec offered.

Sythius did not speak. Nor did he move.

He was too busy staring.


	16. I'm Not Strong Enough to Stay Awake

_**Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up. As mentioned in my "Butterflies and Hurricanes" chapter for this week, I had a number of things demanding my attention; summer vacation no longer affords me the free time that it used to give. It's just…catch-up time.**_

_**Before we get into today's chapter, I'd like to mention two things: one, I can now be found on Facebook, under my pen-name (I'm the Iced Blood from California); I will be posting all my updates from there.**_

_**Two, I have a new project. It's called "The Cottage at the Edge of Forever," and it's where I will be posting all of my original (fantasy) fiction. Updates take place on weekdays. There are 10 stories up so far, with many more to come.**_

_**So if any of you would like to see how I handle fantasy in my own worlds, with my own characters, head on over to ib-fantasy (dot) blogspot (dot) com. Hope to see you there.**_

_**That said, enjoy the chapter.**_

* * *

><p>Kayli sat, performing the meditational equivalent of twiddling her thumbs, trying to ignore the constant flux of tainted magic emanating from the boy lying a handful of feet from her. It wasn't only the fel magic, though; she could feel the plague. This…patient was little more than a breathing corpse, and it was difficult for her to see things the way that Sylvanne and her brother so clearly did.<p>

They saw a victim. She saw an abomination.

The only thing that stayed her hand, and kept her from performing the act that every muscle in her body was screaming for her to do, was the level of sheer indignant fury she had seen in her mistress's eyes. Regardless of what Kayli had been taught, and regardless of how she personally felt on the matter, the fact that her beliefs brought out _that _kind of disdain from a woman she respected and to whom she so often looked for an example, gave her pause.

Another, more primal part of it, was the fact that she knew what Sythiuswould do to her, if she killed his pet blood elf. Even if she was able to convince herself that she would be doing a kindness, and even if she could somehow earn Sylvanne's forgiveness, she knew that the hulking druid would take one look at the elfling's body, and rip hers apart.

Kayli was rather certain that Sylvanne would let it happen.

She eventually opened her eyes and watched the boy. Kin was breathing slowly, laboring for each gulp of air. His own, blasphemous eyes were shut tightly against some silent nightmare, and his little fists were curled around the blankets. He did not thrash or groan, but he was clearly in the grips of some mental horror, and a pang of sympathy reverberated unbidden through Kayli's body and nestled into her gut.

She sighed. "Pitiful," she murmured, and wasn't sure if she was talking about Kin or herself. She stood up, walked over to the small table in one corner of the room, and picked up a bowl of thin porridge. She stepped over to the bed with it, and held a spoonful up to Kin's lips. It made her skin crawl to be so close to him that she could smell, and feel, the stink of death and corruption. But her mistress had asked her to do this, and she would not fail. Not again.

"Eat," she urged, when Kin did not respond. He would not. She eventually tried a cup of tepid water; this he would take, sipping at the life-giving liquid with weak desperation, moaning with fearful relief. Again, that pang of sympathy. "There now," she whispered, feeling the beginnings of a smile tugging at her lips. "That's better."

She took a corner of a blanket and wiped at the child's forehead; the fever's heat was beading out in rivulets of sweat than ran down his pale and drawn face. Kin tried to pull away from the contact, and his bright green eyes snapped open in panic.

Kayli did not know many languages, but she _had _learned a good amount of conversational Thalassian, such that she could recognize the words where others might hear only incomprehensible sick-babble.

"_Where is he? Who is this? Will it kill me? Master! Master, please!"_

Kayli frowned. Reached back into her memory. She eventually said, _"Master is busy. He will come back to you soon. Rest now, child. No one will kill you."_

Hearing his own language seemed to shock Kin out of his terror, and he stared at Kayli with his mouth open. _"You…are…"_

"_Master asked me to look after you," _Kayli said. _"He is going to find a way to help you. You are still sick. You need to eat." _She lifted the bowl of porridge. _"Come now. Sit up."_

Kin did his best to do as asked, but it was clear that the sickness had sapped him of any real strength whatsoever. It might have been good news that this plague seemed to be progressing more slowly than usual, but this seemed to make it all the crueler. Kayli eventually muscled down her revulsion and reached out to help the boy sit upright.

She began to feed him. Though each spoonful was roughly the consistency of soup, barely thicker than the water, each swallow seemed to be painful for the elfling. Kayli didn't think she had seen anything so pitifully miserable as this boy, and as she watched him eat, the last of her defenses crumbled.

Once he had finished his meal, Kin lay back down against the pillows, and Kayli tucked the blanket around him. _"Good," _she whispered with a smile. _"Good boy. Rest now. Master will be back soon."_

Kin closed his eyes.

Kayli straightened, one hand going to the knife tucked into her belt at her right hip. "How long have you been standing there?" she asked flatly.

Heavy footfalls announced another person's arrival in the room, and Kayli turned to see a human male, young but with shoulder-length slate-grey hair. He was dressed in the robes of a mage fit to travel; there were a number of pouches hanging from his wide belt, and he held a walking staff in one hand.

He inclined his head to Kayli, then turned the entirety of his attention to the boy. He looked…bemused. With a half-smirk, he reached into one of his pouches and removed a scroll. He set it onto the table and turned back toward the door. On the threshold, he said, in a deep and cultured voice, smooth and articulate but with a touch of sarcastic amusement, "If you would, read that to Master Sil'nathin when he returns from his audience with the king."

He left without waiting for an answer.


	17. Ill News is an Ill Guest

_**I don't have much to say about this chapter, so I'll leave it short and simple: thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy.**_

_**Take it easy, and I'll see you next week.**_

* * *

><p>The audience with the king of Stormwind amounted to little more than an awkward luncheon for Sythius, who knew nothing of courts and lords and official happenings. Sylvanne talked animatedly, though respectfully, about the goings-on in Darnassus, the new kaldorei capital; if he had paid more attention to the subtext of the conversation, the druid might have understood that the young priestess was attempting—oh, so subtly—to ask for the good king's assistance. The city, winding round the new World Tree of Teldrassil, was growing too quickly for its resources, and the elves were too proud to ask their allies for help. Sylvanne, though, was young; she was part of a new generation, and unafraid of humility.<p>

For his part, young Anduin Wrynn seemed most interested in this new city, and seemed thoroughly behind providing whatever help he or his people could provide. Lord Fordragon urged his young monarch to be more frugal; Lady Prestor outright denied Stormwind's ability to tender aid.

Sythius was not so deep a thinker to understand what it was that he felt from this woman, who was apparently a highly-trusted advisor to the crown. But he did not trust her, and was not tactful enough to hide his displeasure.

Big Olrec managed to pass this off as simple nerves. "Lad's nae use'ter grand halls 'n mighty people," he said, chuckling; though he sent a meaningful look at Fordragon as though warning him to steer the conversation elsewhere. "Born fighter, 'e is. Ain't 'e, Milady Sil'nathin?"

Sylvanne nodded. "Yes. Brother has always been one to speak with his actions. From what I hear from you, Master Stoutfeather, he has proven quite the asset to the Argent Dawn. Is he not?"

"Indeed." The old dwarf stood up as though preparing to make a speech. "Which is why I thought it'd do well for 'im to show 'is face to Yer Majesty," he said to the boy king. "This man here mightn't be one for court formalities, but 'e's one o' the finest soldiers I've e'er worked with. What stands afore ye is a hero in the makin', mark me words."

Sythius bowed his head with such honest humility that his previous rudeness was swiped from the table, so far as King Wrynn was concerned. He beamed at the druid and thanked him profusely for putting his life in defense of the people, and facing such horrors as the undead. The big elf blushed slightly, and his signature grin spread on his lips.

It was clear to all at table that Lady Prestor was not so forgiving. Nonetheless, nothing more was said on the matter. Sylvanne, sensing the other woman's reluctance to offer anything in response to her requests, steered attention masterfully away from the subject and managed to set everyone right again.

"The welcome that I and my companions have received in your fair city has been most gracious," Sylvanne said. "I must apologize for my adjutant's absence. Kayli is performing a task of utmost importance to my brother and myself. I should like to thank you, however, for the hospitality you have shown her. She was most pleased by it, and quite flustered."

Anduin smiled. "It is not often that our kaldorei allies visit the city. The honor is mine, to have followers of Elune in my city. I'm also very pleased to have met you, as well, Master Stoutfeather, and you, Master Sil'nathin."

"Feel free 'n clear ter call me Olrec," said the dwarf, chuckling.

"Sythius," the druid added, nodding in agreement.

Formalities and pleasantries continued, until the three companions were dismissed from the king's chamber. They left with their heads held high, secure in the knowledge that Stormwind had accepted them, and made a pleasant trek back to the Gilded Rose.

Night was falling, and the torches were being lit. Light licked and danced about their faces. The atmosphere was bright, cool, and accommodating. Perhaps it was for this reason that Olrec felt his nerves suddenly start to sing as he stepped into the inn. He'd spent so long in the Plaguelands that no pleasant feeling ever lasted long; there was always something tickling at the back of his mind, telling him that fair fortune always ran short, and there was always something about which to despair.

The old dwarf tried his best not to succumb to such depressions when they struck him, but he was never able to fully shake them. Indeed, the longer he fought such feelings, the stronger they became. Like a disease.

Or a plague.

Sylvanne, of course, had her youth and her faith to sustain her, and her smile was not nearly so jaded. And Sythius…well, he thought too simply to be affected by such doubts. The druid's emotions were of a kind with summer breezes and blooming flowers: they were swift, vibrant, far-reaching, honest…and delicate.

Olrec didn't say anything about his dark thoughts as they climbed the stairs. Nonetheless, he had a hand on one of his hammers as they approached the room where Kin and Kayli were staying, and when the young elf-maid came out looking pale and distraught, not to mention terrified, he was positive she was about to tell them that the poor boy was dead.

As it turned out, what she did have to tell them was even worse.

She said, quietly and shakily, as though she were dreaming and unable to wake;

"…He's turning."


	18. Defying Death

_**I apologize for the delay in getting this out. It turns out that moving into a new home, uprooting one's entire life in my case, takes a toll on the creative process. I haven't been able to sit down and write anything substantial since moving into this apartment, and I think half the reason stems from being in an unfamiliar place. I finally managed to find the right scene for this story, and hence I'm posting it now.**_

_**Though it pains me to delay my schedule, I would much rather wait and put out a scene written with honest feeling, than force out a weekly spoonful of sludge.**_

_**I hope that I may be forgiven.**_

_**Enjoy the scene.**_

* * *

><p>Sythius burst into the room like a man fit for conquest; like he thought the plague was something he could wrap his fists around, and choke the life out of. Sylvanne came next, past the splintered door that was now hanging pitifully on one hinge. Next was Olrec, and Kayli took up the rear, looking miserable and frightened.<p>

Kin was stiff, and for one wild moment Sylvanne thought it might be the stiffness of death. But as she put a hand to the boy's chest, she felt him trembling. His jaw was clamped shut, and strangling little moans passed through his teeth like wisps of smoke.

His fever was worse, and he'd vomited up whatever food Kayli had attempted to give him. Sylvanne reached up and pried open one of the child's tightly closed eyes, and hissed. "They're growing dim," she said. Cursing, she held out her hands and closed her own eyes.

It was obscenely difficult to tap into the energy she so often felt singing in her blood—the holy light that was her calling—with the panic that was surging through her. She could feel her brother next to her, knew that he was cradling the boy's head with one of his mammoth hands. He was whispering to Kin, and it was guttural. Primal. Sylvanne didn't even think it was a language.

Yet it…seemed to have an effect. On her, as well as the boy.

She calmed. She called upon the discipline with which her father had ingrained her, and managed to slow her hammering heart, along with the swirling, whirling maelstrom that made up her thoughts. She could feel it now. The energy. The light. The power.

It flowed out of her like a waterfall, washing over the room like moonlight, and Kin's muttering stopped. But when she opened her eyes, she could tell that it hadn't done much. Kayli had been right. He was turning. However slow-acting the plague was in this tiny body, it was finally winning out. He'd stopped shaking, and his eyes were open, but now he simply stared openly at the ceiling, looking somewhere between horrified and catatonic. His breaths were hitching, whining gasps.

"This is…beyond me," Sylvanne whispered. "This is beyond anyone. He has…hours. If that. Brother, I…I am sorry."

In the silence that followed, nobody spoke. Sythius continued his wordless growling, like he hadn't heard her at all. His eyes were focused purely upon the boy, and it seemed like he intended to _will _Kin back to health. Sylvanne did not bother trying to pull the huge elf away; even if she could have, it wouldn't have done any good. There was no reaching Sythius when it entered his mind to do a thing.

She knew that, better than anyone else.

Big Olrec Stoutfeather closed his eyes against the scene before him, lowered his shaggy head and seemed to become a statue. He did not speak, nor did he seem to be praying, nor even breathing. Sylvanne thought that if she touched the old dwarf, his corded muscles would feel like granite.

She felt as though she were attending a funeral.

"Oh!" Kayli exclaimed, and Sylvanne turned to look at her. The young servant had snatched up a scroll of paper from the table and was now doing her best to read it. Her eyes squinted, and she turned to her mistress. "This…this message. Came for…Master Sythius." Sylvanne could tell that the title was foreign, indeed distasteful, for her to say. Nonetheless, her lips curved the faintest bit into the spirit of a smile. "From a man. A man with grey hair."

Sythius snapped upright, and he whirled to face her.

Sylvanne took the message. She read: "He won't last the night. Take him to Moonglade. I know that they taught you how to get there. Remember. Quickly."

Sythius scowled, and lowered his head in thought.

There was one final message at the bottom edge of the paper; a postscript? Sylvanne murmured, "You look stronger than before."

Unconsciously, or perhaps subconsciously, Sythius drew himself up. His back straightened, his shoulders pulled back in what must have been a swell of pride. This man with grey hair, whomever he was…was important to the druid. Sylvanne mused that this man with grey hair certainly know the sort of person he was dealing with. Quick, curt, direct. He had not given a suggestion, but an order. He had not offered opinions, but stated cold truths.

Sythius responded well to such directness.

He looked around at the others. "We go," he said softly, but firmly. "Moonglade."

"That's clear across the ocean! Back in Kalimdor!" Kayli protested. "How can we make it?"

At this, Sythius grinned his bestial grin. He took hold of one of Kin's tiny, skeletal hands, and reached out his other. "We go," he repeated.

They formed a circle, linking hands with each other. Kayli still looked confused; Olrec's expression was completely blank, and Sylvanne's attention kept getting pulled back to the pitiful half-corpse laying between her and her brother.

She wondered what miracle-worker in Moonglade could possibly pull the tiny blood elf from the brink. Moreover…what miracle-worker would be _willing _to do it? She thought of what Sythius had said in the forest, "I will go to Mother," and wondered.

True, Anathala Sil'nathin had always been close with her firstborn son; even now that he was disgraced. The renowned druidess who had given her birth was certainly powerful; a prodigy, she had been called in her youth, when she had taken up the calling to tend to the earth. But…prodigious or not, eternal peacekeeper or not…

Kin was a blood elf. A plagued blood elf.

_Would _she? Even for Sythius?

Sylvanne didn't know.

She closed her eyes as the very world around her began to melt away to blackness, and prayed.


	19. Nameless Surveyor

_**After a number of weeks trying to get back in touch with my understanding of what this story is supposed to stand for, I return to you (somewhat) refreshed. As mentioned in another update, a member of my family has been in the hospital, so I hope I may be forgiven for at least a part of my disappearance.**_

_**That said, every story needs a villain. And trust me, this one is no different. The "big bad" for Sythius and his merry band is a character that's loomed large in my head for years, and is probably the first character that ever manifested in my head.**_

_**I'd like to introduce you. Play nice.**_

* * *

><p>The place was dank, dreary, with moisture dripping down the bricks like slow, descending dread—just the right sort for the work he felt most at home doing.<p>

Certainly, he had grown accustomed to a…particular lifestyle. He had grown accustomed to fine clothes, finer surroundings, and quality wine. He had never been much for pretentious palaces or serene forests, but he _did _enjoy what the vernacular tended to call "the good life." But he also preferred, in stark contrast to his sun-drunk brethren, darkness. He preferred moody torches and dancing shadows.

Perhaps _that _was why he didn't despair in this prison, where so many lesser men had been broken.

He was not like his kaldorei cousins, who worshiped the night. It was not a sky full of stars and a moon staring down at him like a delirious blind eyeball that felt romantic to him. He did not require such things. He did not require much, when the truth came right out. He was a simple man, with a taste for simple pleasures, and he had simple ambitions.

Not that anyone knew what those ambitions _were, _of course.

Perhaps it was the mystery with which he enshrouded himself that had initially caught the eye of the King, whose direct attention often spelled oblivion—again, of course, for lesser men.

He was kept in a cage. Cramped, tossed aside, encapsulated in impenetrable dark. His captors often forgot to feed him—the undead should, of course, be forgiven for neglecting the needs of the living; they simply did not know any better—but he was resourceful. He made do, as the saying went.

He continued his work.

He had to give credit to the druid. Sythius Sil'nathin was nothing short of a remarkable specimen, and so far had performed most admirably. He was most pleased in that regard. The same could certainly be said for the druid's sister, most luminous was she in the grace of Elune. And the dwarf. Who could have expected the dwarf?

Everything, so far, had gone swimmingly.

But then, he was old. Older than many of his captors. Older than the King. Older than _every _king. He was wise, he was crafty, and he knew better than to trust in plans. They did not _always _come to fruition.

The key to a well-laid operation was not in drawing out a line in hopes of it coming out straight. The key was to keep one's mind always centered upon the destination, and to see every possible pathway. It was a series of tunnels, all leading to the same nest. He had thrived on connecting tunnel after tunnel, string after string, web after web. It was almost a game to him.

He did not trust in the druid to do everything. He did not even trust the druid's allies to pick up the slack. No. He was not nearly as pedestrian a thinker as that. He expected nothing. Expectations would eventually lead to disappointment, and he did not have time for disappointment.

It was not safe to say that he _planned _anything.

His power was in suggestion.

_**Why do you smile?**_

He had caught the knight's attention; his personal jailer. The one who kept watch over him, and ensured that he did not escape. Exquisite. He lifted his eyes to the darkness surrounding his cage. He could not _see _any of the undead creatures that stood sentinel over him; it was too dark for that. But he could _sense _them.

Whenever he tried to speak these days, his throat seemed to collapse upon itself. Truly, he was in no shape to look at; though he had never been especially large, and in fact had always been thin, months in this prison had reduced him to almost nothing. He very closely resembled the shambling, racketing skeletons that made patrol throughout the city.

So he did not answer audibly.

He _did, _however, keep the smile on his face. The knight seemed to find it offensive; the knight found many things offensive. It seemed to think that he was an affront to existence, stepping on the toes of some dark god by daring to live this long.

But he was old. If there was one singular thing he had learned to do in the thousands upon thousands of years since the birth of the world, it was to live. Drinking moisture from the floor and eating whatever maggot-infested scraps a wayward zombie might leave behind after whatever served it for a meal—these things were not going to end him.

He stared blindly in the direction of the knight's heady bulk, still with that defiant smile, until he felt that he had made his point. He closed his eyes, leaned back, and returned to his work.

He reached out to the boy.

Kin, were they calling him now?

…A fitting name.


	20. Moonglade

_**It's been a long time since I've been able to write for this project. I've mentioned in a few recent updates that there have been a great number of things claiming access to my time lately; things outside of creative work. I don't like it. Adult obligations suck. But I'm trying to get back into the swing of things.**_

_**Throughout the course of November, trying to engage in the non-profit event called NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, for the uninitiated), I've worked extensively with these characters. So, I'm back!**_

_**Let's visit Moonglade.**_

* * *

><p>The forest called Moonglade felt like nature made liquid, frozen in stasis like a piece of artwork. It was a statue, a panorama built by a superior mind, with surer hands and cleaner vision than any mortal craftsman.<p>

The ring of mismatched companions seemed to shimmer into existence as if brought to life by a celestial paintbrush. Sythius quickly swept up the boy, obviously unaffected by their otherworldly transportation; the others were not so lucky. Sylvanne swayed on her feet, Olrec was drawing in short, gasping little breaths like he'd just been dunked into a winter-cold pond, and Kayli doubled over and retched out her lunch onto the pristine grass.

A huge creature approached; it looked like a bull that taught itself to stand upright, except that its front legs were shaped like arms, with three-fingered hands. It was a tauren, a member of one of Kalimdor's native races. Big Olrec, when he gathered himself, couldn't help but flinch when he saw the hulking beast. As a veteran of the Third War, the old shaman had faced more than his fair share of tauren on the field. He knew well the honor-bound savagery of which they were capable with a weapon.

He had to remind himself where he was: Moonglade was the home and base of operations for the Cenarion Circle, an order of druids unaffiliated with and largely uninterested in the petty blood-squabbles of the Alliance and Horde. This tauren was not an enemy, and anyway, by any reasonable standards Big Olrec had long since retired from active duty. It was no longer his responsibility to fight for his country.

"Welcome, Dawnlings, to Moonglade," said the tauren, taking note of the tabards worn by Sythius and Olrec. The dwarf bowed his head. Sythius nodded. The druid was of a height with the bull-man, and seemed not to register that this was an oddity. Sythius was not one to consider social awkwardness, and the fact that Olrec would have had to stand on Kayli's shoulders just to look either of them in the eye was completely lost on him. "I am Austerion. What assistance might I provide you?"

The tauren's voice was deep, rumbling, yet somehow sheltering. Nerves were calmed and minds cleared in Austerion's presence, and though his face was unsmiling, he seemed to ingratiate himself to these strangers in front of him merely by standing there.

Sythius glanced down at his arms, and lifted Kin up toward Austerion as if in answer. For a wonder, the guard didn't seem surprised, or offended, by the sick elfling. He frowned, nodded soberly, and merely asked: "What illness plagues this little one?"

"Fancy ye should use such words," said Olrec. "Fledgling's dyin' o' plague."

"We seek Lady Anathala Sil'nathin," Sylvanne said, cleanly cutting Olrec off without quite sounding like it. "I am her daughter, Sylvanne, Acolyte of the Moon."

Austerion blinked, clearly surprised, before bowing his head. "Of course, Milady. Follow me."

The tauren led the small group down a quaint stone path through the painted forest, past pagodas and under awnings, not swiftly but not slowly. Despite the grim nature of their errand, Sylvanne, Kayli, and Olrec all could not help but gawp at their surroundings. The trees were graceful statues, the hills unrolled like red carpets for kings. Out in the distance, mist obscured the view so that the glade felt like a place outside of reality.

"The hills are alive…" Kayli murmured softly, awestruck. And they were. Thorns and vines and flowers, each with vibrant energy, made their meandering way across the scape, animated by the sheer power of _life _that permeated from the ground beneath their feet.

Austerion seemed amused in spite of himself. "Moonglade is the cradle of druidic magic," he said, gesturing grandly. "There is no land more fertile, no trees more magnificent, no wildlife more regal, than here."

As if summoned by this declaration, a stag bounded into view. It stood atop a huge rock, its antlers like a crown, and regarded the approaching group with calm pride. Sythius took note of the beast as they passed, and smiled unconsciously.

Austerion led them into a clearing, sheltered by a canopy of branches and leaves, deep in the heart of the glade's wilderness. Kneeling there in the center of it, hands outstretched toward what might have been a small garden, as if coaxing the plants awake or conducting a symphony, was a woman.

She was tall, as all elves were tall, with hair the soft blue of a waterfall. She wore bright, vibrant robes of green and gold; far from the humble robes of an acolyte or the furs and leathers of an explorer, she dressed like a queen. When Austerion stepped forward and announced, "Good lady, your grace has visitors," she stood slowly, easily, and the gleaming, sun-fire patterns of the robes' embroidery seemed to ripple and whirl like living things.

Anathala Sil'nathin turned.

Big Olrec bowed deeply at the waist. "Milady," he said, humbled.

"Madam," Kayli offered, taking a knee.

Anathala graced her visitors with a warm smile, and approached Sylvanne with open arms. "Sylvanne. Darling."

Sylvanne accepted the embrace. "It is wonderful to see you, Mother," she said softly, and did not catch the slight twinge at her formality. Then the goddess in mortal form turned toward the last, and largest, of their party. Her eyes searched the gruff, leathered face, raked the stone-wrought muscles.

Sythius grinned like a fool and said, as though he had been apart from this woman for a matter of days, rather than three-fourths a century:

"Min'da."

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>Min'da" is a Darnassian word, roughly equivalent to "Mama" or "Mommy."<strong>_


	21. Sil'nathin

_**It's been an interesting time of things lately. Thankfully I have managed to work in a decent amount of "Mists of Pandaria" into my schedule, which keeps this story fresh and alive in my head.**_

_**I have always treated "World of Warcraft" as less of a game, although it certainly still is one, and more of a creative canvas. I can't play a character in a game without giving it…well, character.**_

_**The more I work with Sythius on paper, the more interesting he is to play. I suppose that's one reason I'm doing this. The other is to finally hammer out his story for anyone who might be interested in seeing it.**_

_**Yet again I feel obligated to thank those of you who are reading this.**_

_**Let's begin the next leg of the journey, shall we?**_

* * *

><p>Sylvanne marveled at the scene that unraveled before her.<p>

She had been trained in the formal workings of her family; her father and teacher, the patriarch of her house, had always insisted on poise and dignity, on keeping to appearances and never permitting oneself to dip below one's standards of conduct. Norothain Sil'nathin was a man who referred to his own wife as "my lady," and never by her name; had it not been for Sythius and Anathala, Sylvanne wondered if she would haveeven been given a name at all, or whether her lord father might have simply named her "Daughter of Sil'nathin."

Sylvanne loved the man, respected him and his legacy, and strove in all ways to live up to his pride in her. But here, in this glorious forest, just as Sythius was preparing to ask his mother for a favor that might well shatter her reputation without any regard for what it might mean to her personally, socially, politically—a promise that Sylvanne would never _dream _to ask her father—he did not bother to present himself with humility, nor formality, nor poise nor dignity.

In this moment, Sythius was a boy. Just a dirty, sweaty, radiant boy, like any other.

Anathala's heart melted in her eyes, and Sylvanne couldn't help but smile.

"S-S…" she stammered. "…Sythius! Is it—is it truly…?"

The druid gave a decisive nod. Then, frowning as though confused, he looked around himself. Olrec, who seemed to have an almost telepathic understanding of his huge companion's thoughts, reached out his big arms and took Kin from him. The shaman set the boy down onto the clearing, and set about preparations with the speed and precision of a learned, seasoned field medic.

Sythius grinned toothily and gathered his mother in a smothering embrace. "Min'da!" he repeated happily, and Sylvanne felt tears in her eyes. Anathala, for her part, laughed. It was a crystalline sound, like wind-chimes in a summer breeze.

When he let her go, and she collected herself, Anathala ran her bright golden eyes over her son as though convincing herself that he was real.

There had never been any question that this regal druidess, though she loved her children equally, had always favored her firstborn with her attention. It was only natural. He had followed in her path, had taken up the mantle of nature. Just as Norothain had always favored Sylvanne, whose eyes lifted to the stars.

"My boy," Anathala whispered. "My baby. Look at you. _Look _at you!"

Sythius, ever obedient, looked at himself. "I am me," he murmured thoughtfully.

"Your son has made a name for himself," Sylvanne said. Then, awkwardly, self-consciously, she added: "…Min'da." At this, Anathala beamed at her, which caused Sylvanne to blush. "You know the sigil on his chest?"

Anathala studied the tabard. "The Dawn. You fight the Scourge?"

Sythius nodded.

Olrec glanced over. "Speakin' o' fightin' the Scourge, M'lady, hopin' ye don't take offense fer interruptin', but we come on a, ah, sensitive mission more 'n reunion, sorry ter say."

Torn from her memories made manifest in front of her eyes, Anathala turned her attention to the dwarf, and the bundle to which he tended. "Of course. What mission brings you here, good shaman?"

Olrec blinked, then shook his head. "Ah…" he cleared his throat. Then, he decided it was the best course of action to be straight with this woman. He said, "The laddie's c'rrupted by plague, 'n the foul magicks o' the blood elves. We been seekin' a healer fer him. I done th' best I kin do. Yer boy brought us here. 'E thinks ye kin do more, if ye would."

Anathala stiffened. "Sin'dorei," she said, the warmth evaporating from her face and voice.

Olrec nodded. "Aye."

"He is only a child, Min'da," Sylvanne said, placating. "You are our last hope for him."

"His name is Kin," Kayli put in sheepishly, and yelped when the druidess gave her a deep, searching look.

Anathala stood again, and the dwarf stared up at her, apprehensive. Would she order them to leave? Would she stalk off without a word? Would she slap her son across the face for daring to bring such a blasphemous piece of work before her?

She turned to regard Sythius. "Son," she said, icily. "Do you know what you are asking me to do?"

Sythius looked not only clueless, but almost unconcerned. "You are a healer. I am asking you to heal this little one." He gestured, as if he thought his mother didn't know where Kin was. "We do not allow children to die."

He said these things with clinical detachment; he was reciting rhetoric, parroting things that he had heard before. He seemed to believe that these things were universal truths, and he was perplexed that Anathala, clearly wiser and more experienced than he, would ask him such questions.

Sylvanne and Kayli looked like the children their people considered them, ashamed and nervous, waiting for the druidess to reprimand and punish them.

Sythius stood as stolid as a brick wall. His gaze was clean, clear, and steady.

Fearless.

"Do you know the promises I had to make, the favors I had to call in, to reduce your sentence to exile?" Anathala hissed. "Do you know what it would mean for me, if our people knew that I had done yet another favor for you?" All warmth had vanished from her, but it hadn't been replaced by anger; rather, fear. "Do you know what your father would do, if he found out I was helping you?!"

"Why would you help me?" Sythius asked, honestly mystified. "I am not sick. Kin is sick. Help Kin." Anathala blinked, leaned back as though she'd been struck by something. Sythius glanced fleetingly down at the pathetic bundle on the grass. "…Please."

Big Olrec almost laughed. The logic was so simple, so ungodly basic, that only a boy would have had the temerity and the courage to use it. He was a child asking his parents to let a friend's family live with them because their house had burned down—but Min'da, we have room! They can sleep on the floor!—without understanding the embarrassment or the inconvenience, because such things simply didn't occur to him.

Sythius honestly had no idea why this was so confusing to everyone. For the first time, he believed _himself_ to have come to the proper answer, and everyone else was too slow to catch on. The look he gave to the group around him was almost hilarious.

Kayli looked thunderstruck; Sylvanne wanted to smile.

Anathala sighed heavily. "Sythius, you don't understand. I cannot cure the taint of fel magic."

"Fel magic did not make Kin sick," Sythius said. "Plague did. Can you cure plague?"

Anathala frowned thoughtfully; it looked like she wasn't certain of the answer to that question. She knelt down again, shifted the blankets covering Kin's body, and examined him. She hissed in a sharp breath as she took in the full extent of the boy's corruption. He gasped in pitiful little breaths that came out as whimpers of quiet agony; his body shook spasmodically.

"Kin ye help 'im, M'lady?" Olrec asked quietly.

Anathala sighed, shook her head, muttered, "I'm going to regret this," and rested her hands upon the elfling's chest.


	22. Missives from Nameless Things

_**I'm getting back on my feet, creatively, after the most harrowing semester of my academic career. The bonus being, of course, that I am now officially a Bachelor of the Arts. I earned my BA in English last month.**_

_**This story effectively lives and dies by my subscription to "World of Warcraft," for reasons that are probably easily guessed. As I'm now contemplating renewing said subscription while I'm on break, I decided to resurrect this tale.**_

_**This chapter introduces a couple of new characters, because this story is something of a tapestry. Each of my characters in-game will make an appearance in one way or another as time goes on.**_

_**Let us begin.**_

* * *

><p>"Am I ever going to learn this man's name? Or am I supposed to spend my entire career taking jobs from a stranger?"<p>

Two figures sat in the tavern; not even a bartender shared the space with them. It was closed down for the night. One of the occupants was tall, lanky, swathed in dark, boiled leathers and a heavy fur-lined traveling cloak. One hand rested on the table between them, twirling a short knife through its fingers with deft practice. The other hand lay in the figure's lap, mangled and lame. Only two fingers remained on it, alongside a thumb that looked too small and twisted to be functional. The skin was dark, almost dusky; perhaps it was gangrenous? It was difficult to tell.

This figure's face was covered by a featureless mask.

The second figure was small, childlike, seated on the edge of the table, legs swinging absently. It was a gnome, young and female, leaning her head back and staring at her companion upside down. It should have looked ludicrous, but somehow it bespoke confidence rather than immaturity. The eyes, large and unassuming, were vibrant and bright with interest. They were eyes that missed nothing, eyes that could follow a dust mite on its journey across a carpet.

The gnome had slate-grey hair, and wore a dirty white tabard over leather armor.

The masked man rested his chin in one hand, leaning forward so that he was only an inch away from his companion. "…I am not at liberty to disclose that information."

The gnome scoffed, irritated, and straightened herself. She hopped down onto the hardwood floor and began to pace through tables. "Information is my business, Leolin. Do yourself a favor and stop acting like you have an edge over me."

The masked man stiffened. "You…!" He seemed to catch his mistake as the gnome turned sparkling eyes on him, cursed under his breath, and leaned back in his chair. "I don't know his name. Your guess is as good as mine. _Better." _Leolin gestured randomly; his demeanor was no longer mysterious and guarded. He looked irate, yet somehow bored. "He's shrouded in shrouds. Every time I think I've found him, another pawn is in his place. Never mind his name, we 'agents' don't even know what he _looks _like!"

The gnome seemed pleased with herself. She crossed her arms over her chest and grinned a lopsided little grin. "My, my. Seems someone has been trying to do a bit of background research on his own. You know, if you _really _want to know who the puppeteer pulling your strings is…" A sly wink. "You could always hire someone to find out. I'm never properly motivated until a bargain is struck, you know."

She could _feel _Leolin sneer. "You go from digging for information to dangling it in front of me? What level of stupid do you take me for? If you could have found his name and face by now, you _would _have."

Shrug. "Fine by me. Just reminding you of your options. You're young, inexperienced. You would do well to listen to the advice of your elders, especially in this business. When you find someone willing to divulge information—well, let's say you should take the gift."

"Young?" Leolin replied sharply.

"I'd say you're no older than fourteen."

"Regardless of whatever you think you know about me," Leolin snapped, and the gnome's grin widened, "you still haven't answered the question I came to you with: will you take the job or not?"

"Fine, fine. Spoil the fun, why don't you? That's the problem with you _secretive _types. You never seem to understand that the best way to keep secrets is to talk so damned much that everybody stops listening. White noise, Leolin, it's called white noise. When people get used to something, they get complacent about it. It stops having any kind of meaning in their numb, stupid little ears. And while we're on the subject of numb and stupid, put that knife back where it belongs before I sheathe it in your groin. I don't like it when _boys _try to threaten me."

Leolin flinched violently. He put his blade back into his belt and brooded. "Habit," he muttered. It was like his entire personality had been dismantled, now that he'd been found out. That was one reason that the gnome figured he was young. He didn't know how to think on his feet, and backpedal out of a lie before stumbling over the truth and falling on his ass. "I wasn't threatening any-damn-body." He stood up, tossing his robes about him moodily, and headed for the door. "Will you take the bloody job?" he snapped.

"Of course. Oh, and, ah…" She hesitated a moment. Then she said, "I don't like uneven playing fields. I'll just pretend you _gave _me your name, shall I? And in exchange, here is mine: Altaira. Remember it. This alias business bothers me. There's something shady about it."

"Shady? You're an assassin, for the love of—!"

Altaira held up a hand, waggling a finger. "I'm _not _an assassin. Just because I could kill you six times before you reached that door doesn't mean I _will. _I'm in the business of information. I told you. You want to know something, I can find it out for you. That's the end of it. I'll only kill in absolute necessary circumstances. I don't soil my hands with blood money. And _yes, _since you're so damned insistent, I'll track down the druid. What am I supposed to do when I find him, anyway? Your 'employer' has been particularly vague on that point so far. I don't like vague."

Leolin sighed. "Just keep an eye on him. That's the job. You'll be paid accordingly. My part in this business is over. Now if you'll excuse me—"

"Yes, yes, I know. You have to get back to your mother. She's worried about you, no?"

Leolin sniffed, turned on a heel, and threw himself out of the building.

Altaira chuckled to herself, hopped up onto the bar and sought out one of the good whiskies, wondering what sort of person this Sythius was, and why her nameless benefactor was so interested in him.


	23. The Dream

_**I think this chapter is the first time that I have written from the perspective of an omniscient narrator, if only because I switched perspectives halfway through, and didn't really notice until it was already done, and I was getting ready to post it. I could split it into two chapters, but I'm not sure where because it doesn't feel like it's split into two sections. The two perspectives seem to entwine into each other.**_

_**So, I'm going to leave it the way it is. I think it gets the message across.**_

* * *

><p>"Do you understand?"<p>

Anathala seemed to know without asking that this question was necessary in any sort of complex discourse with her son; he was not a complicated thinker, and relied on very specific instructions. Expecting him to infer much of anything delicate was a mistake of the highest order.

"Acorns," Sythius said. "From the Dream."

Anathala smiled. "Yes. They are infused with powerful, concentrated restorative magic. Now, I can send you there, but it's dangerous. Do you understand, son? You will most likely be set on all sides by nightmares. The Emerald Dream can be treacherous, especially for those who don't enter it through the proper channels. I'm circumventing many, _many _reagents and rituals for the sake of time. You will have to fight for your prize. Can you do that, Sythius?"

The big druid nodded. "I can fight," he said.

"Are you _sure _this is your path?"

Olrec thought that Anathala Sil'nathin was a woman who was dedicated to her art, and wouldn't have asked such a question if the comrade in question wasn't one of her own brood. The old shaman could tell damn well that Sythius was sure of himself; in the dark part of him where cruel truths lay in wait, Big Olrec thought the druid was too dumb to doubt himself.

But then, that wasn't fair. What did it matter to anyone worth mentioning if Sythius of the Claw didn't know which fork to use at a dinner party, or if he couldn't dress himself in lord-lings' dress? He was a warrior, a living shield, and what he _did _know, he knew instinctively. He was a savant, true and simple, and if anyone was going to head straight into the Emerald Dream and fight his way toward a prize, even if it was something as small and unassuming as a bloody acorn, it was going to be him.

"I am sure," Sythius said solemnly.

Anathala looked agonized, like she regretted mightily ever mentioning that going into the Dream was an option. It was a long shot, she kept saying, an errand that _might_ work, but just as well might not do anything at all. She was worried, and Big Olrec couldn't say that he blamed her. She hadn't seen this boy in almost a hundred years, had probably damn near convinced herself that she would never see him again, but here he was asking her to send him on a suicide mission.

A mother had a right to worry.

Now, Big Olrec knew a little about the Dream; it was the source of all druidic power, a pristine wild-land lying somewhere beneath the world where he, as a shaman, drew _his _strength. Olrec Stoutfeather could feel the earth's crumbling sense of self whenever he stood upon it; when he breathed in a gulp of air, he could taste its motivations. Water spoke to him, and lightning screamed.

But the druids—those like Anathala, and Rayne, and even Sythius—dug deeper than that. They dwelled in a place beneath the world, behind and around and _within _the world. The Emerald Dream was the hibernating memory of Azeroth's past, from a time before civilization had had the tumultuous audacity to infringe upon it.

Sythius intended to breach that barrier; he was entering heaven without the decency of dying first, to steal an artifact from it. Anathala said that the force of life within the dream, particularly in a concentrated form like that of an acorn—Olrec wondered if there weren't better pieces of flora that might serve better for this purpose, but she had chosen something that her son would recognize easily—would be strong enough to overwhelm and absorb the miasma of death that was turning little Kin's blood to black sludge.

Anathala still seemed concerned about this mission for other reasons; not the least of which being that she had lived for over two thousand years, and in that time her people's unadulterated hatred of their sun-dwelling cousins, the quel'dorei, had cemented itself in her consciousness; the bright green sacrilege of Kin's eyes was offensive to every part of her. Big Olrec thought that it was Kayli, more than anyone, who had finally convinced her to place her hand into this mad errand. If the young Oakwalker heiress, who had grown up with the most traditional beliefs possible for any kaldorei maiden to have, was convinced that this boy needed saving…

This had likely been a trickling effect; Sythius had convinced Sylvanne because he was her beloved brother, and Sylvanne had convinced Kayli because Kayli all but worshipped her mistress and never went against her wishes for long. Olrec thought that was likely enough, and he had only known Sylvanne and Kayli for a period best counted in hours. And even Sythius, he had only known for a smattering of months.

But it seemed _right, _that it should be this way. And so he didn't second-guess it.

The shaman wondered if Anathala hadn't decided to handle this mission to make sure that her children didn't go somewhere else. She was sure, just from the way they watched her at her work preparing for the ritual, that they would; both of them were convinced that the health of this boy called Kin was a personal mission given to them by their respective higher powers.

Sylvanne announced, rather emphatically, that if Elune hadn't meant for her to help this boy, then she wouldn't have been able to do anything for him; since she had, Sylvanne was convinced that her goddess had given the go-ahead.

Anathala couldn't help but wonder what her husband would think of such an idea; but it carried some weight. Wasn't that the way a priestess _should _think? Should she not ignore the prejudices of mortal men and women, and focus her attention on the moon and stars?

Isn't that just how Norothain had always taught her?

The druidess couldn't help but smile as she worked, glancing back every so often to look at her progeny, together again, standing side by side again, convinced that they were right and desperate for their mother to understand them.

As the gate was opening, and Sythius rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles, and Sylvanne put a hand on him and said, "…Hann'ore," an old nickname that she hadn't used since childhood, and Sythius nodded to her, Anathala realized with a jolt just how proud she was of them.

She tended to the blood elf's body as well as she could, almost laughing as she did.

When Sythius vanished into the Dream, and his body collapsed into unconsciousness, she almost forgot to be worried.


End file.
